THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
EDWIN  CORLE 

PRESENTED  BY 
JEAN  CORLE 


THE 


SHAKESPEAREAN  PLAYS 


OF 


EDWIN  BOOTH 


Edited  by 

WILLIAM  WINTER 


VOLUME  I 


PHILADELPHIA 

THE  PENN   PUBLISHING   COMPANY 
189? 


Copyright  1899  by  The  Penn  Publishing  Company 


VOL.  I 


preface* 

//V  /<?//,  in  a  conversation  with  Edwin  Booth,! expressed 
to  him  a  regret, — which,  doubtless,  is  felt  by  many  vota- 
ries of  the  drama, — that  little  of  the  stage  business  of 
the  famous  old  actors,  such  as  Burbagc,  Betterton,  Quin, 
Wilks,  Garrick,  Barry,  Henderson,  Kemble,  Edmund  Kean, 
Macready,  etc. ,  has  been  recorded,  and  that  it  should  be  diffi- 
cult for  a  student  of  acting  to  ascertain  the  exact  manner  in 
which  those  actors  played  the  parts  with  which,  historically, 
their  names  are  associated ;  and  I  siiggested  that  the  time 
would  come  when  students  of  acting  might  find  it  as  hard  to 
learn  material  facts  about  his  Hamlet  and  Richelieu,  as 
we  had  found  it  to  learn  material  facts  about  Burbage  in 
Shylock,  or  Henderson  in  lago.  We  talked  long  and  ear- 
nestly on  this  subject,  and  the  result  of  our  colloquy  was  a 
resolve  to  print  the  EDWIN  BOOTH  PROMPT  BOOK,  to  com- 
prise the  sixteen  plays  which  were  included  in  Booths 
regular  and  customary  repertory.  That  collection  of  plays, 
with  all  the  original  prefaces  and  notes,  and  with  additional 
embellishments, — the  whole  material  revised  and  corrected, — 
is  now  presented  in  a  Library  Edition. 

Edwin  Booth  said  that  twenty  years  earlier,  in  1857,  he 
had  begun  to  make  stage  versions  of  some  of  the  stock  plays 
then  in  use  by  him,  and  he  referred  to  books  of  several  of 
them  which  he  had  caused  to  be  printed,  in  the  time  of  his 
management  of  the  Winter  Garden  Theatre,  iS6j  to  1867, 
under  the  supervision  of  a  member  of  his  theatrical  company  : 
those  books,  being  dissatisfied  with  them,  he  said  that  he  had 
discarded.  It  was  planned  that  the  new  Prompt  Book  should 
give  the  text  of  the  several  plays  only  as  actually  used  in  his 
VOL.  i  v 


VI  FREFACE. 

representations  of  them,  and  shonld  preserve  as  much  as 
possible  of  his  stage  business.  A  feiv  days  later  he  sent  to 
me  the  tragedy  of  "Richard  ///,"  cut  and  arranged  for  the 
stage,  and  the  book  of  that  tragedy  was  the  first  of  the  series 
that  went  to  the  press.  Booth  had  previously,  in  1876,  re- 
verted to  the  original  text  of  that  play,  discarding  Cibber 
and  restoring  Shakespeare.  We  had  many  discussions  about 
the  text,  not  only  of  "Richard  III"  but  of  the  other 
Shakespearean  dramas,  and  I  found  my  belief  amply  con- 
firmed, that,  in  every  case,  he  had  studied  his  subject  with 
scrupulous  attention  and  deep  insight,  and  was  thoroughly 
and  minutely  acquainted  with  every  part  of  it. 

The  series  was  completed  and  published  within  the  years 
1877  and  1878.  ft  included  ''Hamlet,"  "Macbeth,"  "Othello," 
"King  Lear,"  "Richard  //,"  "Richard  III?  "Henry  VIII" 
"  The  Merchant  of  Venice"  "Much  Ado  About  Nothing" 
"Katharine  and  Petruchio"  "Richelieu"  "  The  Fool's  Re- 
venge,"  "Brutus,"  "Ruy  Bias,"  and  "Don  Casar  de  Bazan" 
The  last  play  published  was  "Henry  VIII"  The  tragedy  of 
"Julius  Ctzsar"  was  cut  and  arranged  for  publication,  but  it 
was  not  printed  until  after  the  formation  of  the  Booth  and 
Barrett  alliance,  in  1886-87,  and  ^  was  then  hurriedly  sent 
to  press,  without  either  preface  or  notes,  That  lack  I  have 
supplied  in  the  present  edition.  Booth's  stage  version  of 
" The  Merchant  of  Venice"  as  originally  made,  did  not 
include  the  fifth  act,  but  after  Booth  and  Lawrence  Barrett 
joined  their  dramatic  forces  they  thought  it  wise  to  follow 
the  example  of  Henry  Irving  (that  great  actor  having,  in  the 
meantime,  1883,  come  to  America  and  presented  "  The  Mer- 
chant of  Venice  "  in  a  magnificent  manner,  ivith  the  full  text 
of  Shakespeare,  and  with  the  incomparable  Ellen  Terry  as 
Portia),  and  so  the  last  act  of  the  comedy  was  restored  to  its 
rightful  place.  Booth's  prompt-copy  originally  ended  with 
Shylock's  exit,  after  the  Trial. 


• 


PREFACE.  VII 

Booth  did  not  write  into  the  plays  as  much  of  his  stage 
business  as  I  wished  him  to  give,  for  the  capricious  reason 
that  he  fancied  it  would  be  tedious,  but  he  furnished  many 
directions,  and  he  approved  of  many  that  were  supplied  by 
me  from  recollection  of  his  performances :  it  was  in  conse- 
quence of  a  comment  of  mine  upon  Hamlet's  demeanor  in  the 
rehearsal  scene  that  he  discontinued  the  use  of  that  singular 
phrase,  "the  mobled  queen,"  and  put  the  folio  reading,  "  in- 
noble  d  queen"  meaning  degraded  queen,  in  its  place ;  that 
reading  lie  ever  afterwards  retained  and  used.  The  plays 
were  printed  in  the  regular  prompt-book  form,  with  a  blank 
page  facing  each  page  of  the  text.  The  intention  was  to  in- 
clude, within  a  brief  compass,  all  the  information  absolutely 
essential  for  actors,  as  to  each  play,  and  to  make  every  detail 
of  the  representation  clear,  so  that  the  stage  mechanics  could 
set  each  play  by  merely  following  the  directions  in  each  book. 
It  was  Booth's  desire,  furthermore,  that  the  Prompt  Book 
should,  -ultimately,  be  extended,  so  as  to  comprise  not  only  the 
plays  included  in  his  personal  repertory,  but  many  others, — 
in  short,  (ha!  it  should  be  made  a  compendium  of  the  Standard 
Acting  Drama.  This  work  and  also  a  History  of  the  Rise 
and  Progress  of  the  TJieatre  in  America  were  literary  pro- 
jects that  we  had  planned  to  fulfill  in  collaboration.  Various 
obstacles,  however,  delayed  the  accomplishment  of  our  plans, 
and  Booth's  untimely  death  put  an  end  to  them. 

WILLIAM  WINTER. 

New  York,  February  p, 


VOL.     I 


Seconfc  preface 

rHE  customs  of  the  old  actors,  in  the  dressing  of  Shakes- 
peare's characters,  were  scarcely  less  remarkable 
than  their  mutilations  of  his  plays.  Macklin  appears  to 
have  been  first  in  the  appropriate  regulation  of  theatrical 
dressing;  he  dressed  Shy  lock,  2741,  in  a  loose  black  gown,  a 
peaked  beard,  and  a  red  hat,  and  he  dressed  Macbeth,  1772, 
in  Scottish  garments— whereas,  prior  to  that  time,  Macbeth 
had  been  arrayed  in  a  suit  of  scarlet  and  gold,  with  a  tail 
wig.  Garrick,  Barry,  and  Smith,  as  Macbeth,  wore  the 
uniform  of  a  British  military  officer.  Singing-wile  he  s  were 
introduced  into  that  tragedy,  and  Mrs.  Anna  Maria  Crouch, 
1763-1805,  as  the  first  and  most  important  of  those  warblers, 
assumed  an  elaborate  raiment,  including  a  fancy  hat,  point 
lace,  and  powdered  hair.  The  apparel  -usually  worn  for 
Othello  was  a  coat,  waistcoat,  and  trousers  of  white  cloth — 
the  coat  and  waistcoat  being  profusely  decorated  with  silver 
lace — a  black  wig  with  long  hair,  the  appendage  called  a 
ramillies,  about  three  feet  in  length,  white  silk  stockings  and 
dancing  pumps.  Fennell  describes  that  habiliment,  as  cus- 
tomary in  the  theatre,  and  as  having  been  worn  by  himself  in 
1787.  John  Philip  Kemble  presented  Othello,  1788,  in  the 
blazing  effulgence  of  a  British  general.  Garrick,  as  Ham- 
let, wore  a  court  dress,  of  the  time  of  George  HI.  The  garb 
of  the  elder  Booth,  as  Richard  III,  and  that  of  Edwin  Forrest, 
in  almost  all  of  the  parts  that  he  played,  as  may  be  seen  in 
the  photographs  of  him  made  by  M.  B.  Brady,  and  reproduced 
in  W.  R.  Alger's  well  known  Life,  were  such  as,  to  an  edu- 
cated audience  of  to-day,  would  be  ludicrous.  Contemporary 
portraits  of  Frances  Abington,  Elizabeth  Farren,  Dora 

VIII  VOL.    I 


PREl'ACE.  IX 

Jordan,  and  Mrs.  Siddons,  that  have  come  down  to  us  from 
their  times,  depicting  them  in  Rosalind  and  in  other  comedy 
characters  of  Shakespeare,  suggest  figures  that  now  would 
be  called  "guys."  Much  improvement,  certainly,  has  been 
made  in  this  department  of  stage  art,  since  Macklin  set  his 
good  example.  John  Philip  Kemble  made  salutary  changes, 
and  much  was  done  to  insure  correctness,  without  the  sacri- 
fice of  effect,  by  Charles  Kean,  the  scholar-like  and  fastidious 
Macready,  and  Edwin  Booth. 

In  the  present  day  the  art  of  theatrical  dressing  and  of 
stage  picture  has  been  carried  to  great  perfection  by  Henry 
Irving  and  Augustin  Daly.  The  plays  of  Shakespeare,  as 
now  produced,  are  condensed,  and  in  some  particulars  are 
slightly  altered,  but  the  adapters  of  the  nineteenth  century  are 
far  behind  those  of  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth,  in  the 
matter  of  editorial  license.  Many  examples  might  be  given. 
Garrick  always  acted  Gibbers  "  Richard  III,"  never  Shakes- 
peare's ;  his  stage  version  of  "Hamlet,"  which  omitted  the 
clowns,  etc, ,  was  little  better  than  a  butchery ;  and  his  ver- 
sion of  "  Romeo  and  Juliet"  based  without  credit  on  that  of 
Theophilus  Cibber,  incorporating  a  silly  dirge  and  lines  from 
Otway,  and  causing  Juliet  to  awake  before  Romeo  s  death,  in 
the  tomb,  was  a  profanation.  The  reader  can  find  it  in 
"Bell's  Theatre''  Garrick  also  mangled"  The  Winter's 
Tale "  and  turned  ' '  The  Tempest "  into  an  opera,  and 
all  hough  he  discarded  Davenant's  alteration  of  "  Macbeth" 
he  yet  encumbered  that  tragedy  with  superfluous  music  and 
singing  ivomen,  and  introduced  for  Macbeth  a  dying  speech, 
which  is  not  only  needless  but  absurd.  Thomas  Sheridan, 
when  acting  Romeo,  spoke  Mercutio's  speech  about  Queen 
Mab  arid  dreams.  John  Philip  Kemble,  in  acting  Coriolanus, 
always  used  the  version  that  mixes  Thomson  with  Shakes- 
peare;  and  so,  at  a  later  time,  did  Edwin  Forrest.  The 
purists  of  the  present,  who  utter  the  voice  of  indignant  pro- 

VOL.    I 


X  PREFACE. 

test  against  even  the  slightest  alteration  of  the  original 
Shakespearean  structure,  seem  to  suppose  that  earlier  times 
displayed  a  greater  reverence  in  this  matter ;  but  that  is  a 
mistake. 

The  truth  is  that  no  one  of  Shakespeare's  plays  can  be  pre- 
sented and  spoken  exactly  as  it  is  fashioned  and  written,  and 
that,  in  the  regular  theatre,  no  one  of  them  ever  has  been  per- 
formed, since  Shakespeare's  time,  without  some  curtailment. 
In  the  Universities  and  on  scholastic  occasions  the  literal 
original  has,  now  and  then,  been  given.  At  Stratford-upon- 
Avon,  for  example,  during  the  Shakespeare  Festival,  in 
April,  rSyy,  the  ivhole  of  "  Hamlet "  was  represented,  some 
of  it  in  the  afternoon  and  the  rest  of  it  in  the  evening.  In 
Shakespeare's  period,  when  theatrical  performances  oc- 
curred in  the  day,  and  when  but  little  use  was  made  of  scenery, 
the  whole  of  such  a  piece  as  • '  Richard  ///' '  might  have  been 
given,  but  no  audience  would  endure  it  now.  Every  actor  who, 
achieving  distinction,  has  attained power ;  uses  his  own  stage- 
versions  of  Shakespeare,  and  if  all  those  versions  had  been 
preserved  we  should  possess,  in  writing,  the  stage -traditions 
which  now,  for  the  most  part,  are  preserved  only  in  memory, 
of  a  rapidly  vanishing  race  of  players.  A  considerable 
number  of  the  MS.  prompt-books  used  in  Drury  Lane  Thea- 
tre, in  the  Garrick  period  and  later,  do,  indeed,  exist,  in  the 
rich  and  very  remarkable  collection  made  by  Augtistin  Daly  ; 
but  these  are  inaccessible  to  the  public. 

As  an  example  of  the  utility  of  good  stage-business,  and  of 
the  importance  of  preserving  the  expedients  that  are  devised 
in  this  line  of  art  by  the  best  actors,  reference  may  be  made 
to  Edwin  Booth's  treatment  of  the  scene  with  the  sexton  at 
Ophelia's  grave.  The  sexton,  as  he  digs  and  sings,  throws 
out  bones  and  skulls,  and,  in  the  course  of  his  ensuing  collo- 
quy with  Hamlet,  he  designates  one  of  those  relics  as  "  Yor- 
icKs  skull,  the  King's  jester"  In  the  old  custom  of  the  stage 

VOL.   I 


PREFACE.  XI 

no  token  was  provided  by  which  the  skull  of  Yorick  could  be 
identified.  In  Edwin  Booth 's  ordainment  of  the  stage-biisi- 
ness  this  omission  was,  for  the  first  time,  remedied,  by  the 
simple  provision  that  one  of  the  skulls  thus  cast  out  by  the 
grave-digger  should  have  a  tattered  rag  of  a  fool's-cap  ad- 
herent to  it,  and  that  the  sexton  should  recognize  it,  with  a 
half  jocular  and  half  affectionate  greeting,  as  he  laid  it  aside, 
to  be  presently  taken  up  and  shown  to  the  Prince  as  the  sad 
and  ghastly  remnant  of  an  old  friend.  There  were  many 
delicate  pieces  of  stage-business  similar  to  this  in  Edivin 
Booth's  production  of  "  Hamlet"  and,  indeed,  all  his  produc- 
tions evinced  the  instructive  results  of  close  study,  deep  medi- 
tation, poetic  apprehension,  and  practical  experiment.  It 
must  ever  be  my  regret  that  I  did  not  succeed  in  preserving 
all  of  them.  Those  of  them  that  were  preserved  are  shown 
in  these  volumes,  now  finally  dedicated  to  the  service  of  the 
American  stage  and  to  the  memory  of  its  greatest  tragedian 
in  the  latter  half  of  the  nineteenth  century,  EDWIN  BOOTH. 
"  Nee  viget  quidquam  simile  out  secundum." 

WILLIAM  WINTER. 
New  York,  June  jd, 


VOL.    I 


X  PREFACE. 

test  against  even  the  slightest  alteration  of  the  original 
Shakespearean  structure,  seem  to  suppose  that  earlier  times 
displayed  a  greater  reverence  ix  Ms  matter ;  but  that  is  a 
mistake. 

The  truth  is  that  no  one  of  Shakespeare's  plays  can  be  pre- 
sented and  spoken  exactly  as  it  is  fashioned  and  written,  and 
that,  in  the  regular  theatre,  no  one  of  them  ever  has  been  per- 
formed, since  Shakespeare's  time,  without  some  curtailment. 
In  the  Universities  and  on  scholastic  occasions  the  literal 
original  has,  now  and  then,  been  given.  At  Slratford-upon- 
Aoon.  for  example,  during  the  Shakespeare  Festival,  in 
April,  1899,  the  whole  of  "  Hamlet "  was  represented,  some 
of  it  in  the  afternoon  and  the  rest  of  it  in  the  evening.  In 
Shakespeare's  period,  when  theatrical  performances  oc- 
curred in  the  day,  and  when  but  little  use  was  made  of  scenery, 
the  whole  of  such  a  piece  as  >'  Richard  IIP'  might  have  been 
given,  but  no  audience  would  endure  it  now.  Every  actor  who, 
achieving  distinction,  has  attained  power,  uses  his  own  stage- 
versions  of  Shakespeare,  and  if  all  those  versions  had  been 
preserved  we  should  possess,  in  writing,  the  stage-traditions 
which  now,  for  the  most  part,  are  preserved  only  in  memory, 
of  a  rapidly  vanishing  race  of  players.  A  considerable 
number  of  the  MS.  prompt-books  used  in  Drury  Lane  Thea- 
tre, in  the  Garrick  period  and  later,  do,  indeed,  exist,  in  the 
rich  and  very  remarkable  collection  made  by  Augustin  Daly  ; 
but  these  are  inaccessible  to  the  public. 

As  an  example  of  the  utility  of  good  stage -business,  and  of 
the  importance  of  preserving  the  expedients  that  are  devised 
in  this  Hue  of  art  by  the  best  actors,  reference  may  be  made 
to  Edwin  Booth's  treatment  of  the  scene  with  the  sexton  at 
Ophelia's  grave.  The  sexton,  as  he  digs  and  sings,  throws 
out  bones  and  skulls,  and,  in  the  course  of  his  ensuing  collo- 
quy with  Hamlet,  he  designates  one  of  those  relics  as  "  Yor- 
ick's  skull,  the  King's  jester."  In  the  old  custom  of  the  stage 

VOL.   I 


PREFACE.  XI 

no  token  was  provided  by  which  the  skull  of  Yorick  could  be 
identified.  In  Edwin  Booth's  ordainment  of  the  stage-busi- 
ness this  omission  was,  for  the  first  time,  remedied,  by  the 
simple  provision  that  one  of  the  skulls  thus  cast  out  by  the 
grave-digger  should  have  a  tattered  rag  of  a  fooVs-cap  ad- 
herent to  it,  and  that  the  sexton  should  recognize  it,  with  a 
half  jocular  and  half  affectionate  greeting,  as  he  laid  it  aside, 
to  be  presently  taken  up  and  shown  to  the  Prince  as  the  sad 
and  ghastly  remnant  of  an  old  friend.  There  were  many 
delicate  pieces  of  stage-business  similar  to  this  in  Edwin 
Booth's  production  of  "  Hamlet"  and,  indeed,  all  his  produc- 
tions evinced  the  instructive  results  of  close  study,  deep  medi- 
tation, poetic  apprehension,  and  practical  experiment.  It 
must  ever  be  my  regret  that  I  did  not  succeed  in  preserving 
all  of  them.  Those  of  them  that  were  preserved  are  shown 
in  these  volumes,  now  finally  dedicated  to  the  service  of  the 
American  stage  and  to  the  memory  of  its  greatest  tragedian 
in  the  latter  half  of  the  nineteenth  century,  EDWIX  BOOTH. 
"  Nee  viget  quidquam  simile  out  secundum" 

WILL/AM  WINTER. 
New  York,  June  jd, 


CONTENTS 

SB 

Hamlet 

Macbeth 

King  Lear 

Julius  Caesar 

Merchant  o(  Venice 

m 


VOL.   I 


HAMLET 


VOL.   I 


*T~^H/S  version  of  "Hamlet,"  which,  in  its  construction 
J-  and  embellishment,  is  unlike  all  others,  has  been  made 
for  practical  use  on  the  stage.  It  is  shorter  than  the  original 
by  about  one  thousand  lines.  The  passages  excluded  are 
those  which,  it  is  thought,  might  prove  tedious  in  the  repre- 
sentation, and  which,  therefore,  may  well  be  spared.  Among 
them  are  tJie  episode  of  Fortinbras,  the  colloquy  between 
Polonius  and  Reynaldo,  and  the  interview  between  Hamlet 
and  the  Norwegian  soldiers.  Certain  speeches  which  moment- 
arily arrest  the  action  of  the  piece — such  as  that  of  Horatio 
on  the  preparations  for  war,  and  that  of  Hamlet  on  the 
custom  of  revelry  in  Denmark — have  been  rejected,  as 
impediments  to  directness  of  dramatic  effect.  The  excisions 
also  include  dialogues,  such  as  those  at  the  beginning  of  the 
fourth  act,  which  are  but  the  descriptive  repetition  of  action 
that  has  already  been  shown,  or  the  narration  of  incident 
that  has  been  distinctly  implied.  Passages  which  do  but 
amplify  and  reiterate  ideas  that  have  previously  been  made 
sufficiently  clear  for  the  practical  purposes  of  the  stage  have 
likewise  been  discarded.  The  servility  of  Rosencrantz  and 


Guildenstern,  for  example,  is  known  well  enough  without 
their  candied  and  fawning  speeches  to  the  king,  after  the 
play-scene ;  and  both  Hamlet's  mental  vacillation  and  the 
springs  of  it  are  plainly  evident  long  before  he  reaches  his 
monologtie  on  the  expedition  of  Fortinbras.  In  a  few 
instances  lines  of  the  original  have  been  transposed :  in  a 
very  feiv  instances  words  have  been  altered — but  never  to  the 
pen'ersion  of  the  meaning.  Coarse  phrases  have  been  cast 
aside,  or  modified,  wherever  they  occur.  In  the  fourth  act, 
Marccllus,  instead  of  Horatio,  has  been  made  to  announce 
the  madness  of  Ophelia,  and  to  attend  ttpon  her — for  tJie 
reason  that  had  Horatio  been  aware  of  her  calamity  he  must 
have  communicated  it  to  Hamlet  prior  to  their  encounter 
with  the  funeral  procession  in  the  church-yard.  Care  has 
been  particularly  taken  to  omit  nothing  that  is  essential  to  the 
exposition  of  Hamlefs  madness,  and  of  the  mental  condition 
that  leads  him  to  assume  it.  "Hamlet's  wildness"  says 
Coleridge,  "is  but  half  false :  he  plays  that  subtle  trick  of 
pretending  to  act,  only  when  he  is  very  near  really  being  what 
he  acts'1  The  point  is  a  subtle  one,  and  of  immense  impor- 
tance to  the  comprehension  of  the  character.  It  has  been 
steadily  kept  in  view  ;  and  the  clearness  and  fullness  of  all 
the  characters  implicated  have  been  studiously  sought,  in  the 
necessary  condensation  of  the  piece.  In  brief,  a  conscientious 
effort  has  here  been  made  to  construct  an  acting  version  of 
"Hamlet"  which  yet  should  escape  the  reproach  of  having 
garbled  the  original.  "  The  theatrical  copies  of  Shakespeare's 
plays?  says  Charles  Cowden  Clarke,  "are  so  notoriously 
abridged  that  it  is  impossible,  by  them,  to  judge  fairly  of  the 
poet's  delineation  of  character,  who  never  wrote  a  line  that 
did  not  harmonize  with,  and  tend  to,  define,  the  portrait  he 
was  limning:1 —  To  meet  the  exigencies  of  the  stage  without 


sacrificing  the  beauties  of  the  author,  and  to  present  Hamlet 
clearly  without  keeping  him  too  long  in  the  public  eye,  will  not, 
at  least,  be  thought  an  injudicious  endeavor.  The  tragedy  is 
here  set  forth  precisely  as  it  is  presented  by  Edwin  Booth  : 
that  is  to  say,  with  the  arrangement  of  scenes  and  the  stage- 
directions  made  and  used  by  him.  The  Appendix,  for  which, 
of  course,  the  Editor  is  alone  responsible  to  critical  judgment, 
contains  remarks  upon  the  character  and  information 
respecting  the  tragedy  of  "Hamlet"  which  it  is  hoped  may 
prove  use/id — at  least  by  way  of  suggestion  —  to  theatrical 
students. 

W.  W. 
New-  York,  Feb.  ////,  1878. 


"Shakespeare  is  a  being  of  a  higher  nature,  to  whom  I  do  but  look  up, 
and  whom  it  is  my  part  to  worship  and  to  honour." — GOETHE. 


"  Once  more  assay 
The  bitter-sweet  of  this  Shakespearean  fruit." — KEATS. 


"  Geninus  remarks  that  whenever  the  name  of  Shakespeare  is  mentioned, 
the  play  of  '  Hamlet '  first  comes  to  remembrance  :  and  John  Kemble  ob- 
served t/tat  in  every  copy  of  Shakespeare's  works  it  appeared  that  'Hamlet ' 
had  been  the  play  most  read." — DR.  CONOLLY. 


"  Flame  trembles  most  ^vhen  it  doth  highest  rise." — DAVENANT. 


"  We  have  here  an  oak  planted  in  a  costly  vase,  fit  only  to  receive  lovely 
flowers  within  its  bosom :  the  roots  spread,  and  burst  the  vase." — GOETHE. 


"  Self-disgust 

Gnaws  at  the  roots  of  being,  and  doth  hang 
A  heavy  sickness  on  the  beams  of  day. 
Cursed  !  accursed  be  the  freaks  of  nature, 
That  mar  us  from  ourselves." — HORNE. 


1 '  He  has  the  desire  and  the  power  to  accomplish  great  things,  but  it  must 
be  in  obedience  to  the  dictates  of  his  own  thoughts,  and  by  his  own  independ- 
ent, original,  and  creative  energy.  *  *  *  The  poor  plans  and  intentions  of 
man  do  not  miscarry  through  the  weakness  of  their  authors,  but  their  base- 
less projects  are  also,  by  an  intrinsic  necessity,  as  frequently  crossed  and 
frustrated  by  the  equally  baseless  empire  of  chance." — ULRICI. 


"  Wide  yawns  the  grave  ;  dull  tolls  the  solemn  bell ; 
Dark  lie  the  dead ;  and  long  the  last  farewell." — WILSON. 


CLAUDIUS,  KING  OF  DENMARK. 

HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK,  NEPHEW  TO  CLAUDIUS. 

GHOST  OF  KING  HAMLET,  FATHER  TO  THE  PRINCE. 

POLONIUS,  THE  LORD  CHAMBERLAIN. 

LAERTES,  SON  TO  POLONIUS. 

HORATIO,  FRIEND  TO  HAMLET. 

ROSENCRANTZ,    "| 

GUILDENSTERN,  \  COURTIERS. 

OSRIC, 

MARCELLUS, 


.  OFFICERS. 
BERNARDO, 

FRANCISCO,  A  SOLDIER. 

SEVERAL  PLAYERS. 

FIRST  AND  SECOND  GRAVE-DIGGERS. 

A  PRIEST. 

GERTRUDE,  QUEEN  OF  DENMARK,  MOTHER  TO  HAMLET. 

OPHELIA,  DAUGHTER  TO  POLONIUS. 

LORDS,  LADIES,  OFFICERS,  SOLDIERS,  PAGES,  etc. 

ant*  €ime« 

* 

SCENE. — Elsinore,  in  Denmark. 

PERIOD. — The  Eleventh  Century. 

TIME  OF  ACTION. — Between  Two  and  Three  Months. 


HAMLET. 


f  fcjft. 

&r    r>    jr-j    f  (  ELSINORE.       A  PLATFORM  BEFORE  THE 
r*  I      CASTLE.     FULL  STAGE.     MOONLIGHT. 

[Francisco,  as  sentinel  on  guard,  discovered  at  hh 
post.     Enter  to  him  Bernardo. 

Ber. 
Who  's  there  ? 

Fran. 
Nay,  answer  me;  stand,  and  unfold  yourself. 

Ber. 
Long  live  the  king  ! 

Fran. 
Bernardo  ? 

Ber. 
He. 

Fran. 
You  come  most  carefully  upon  your  hour. 

Ber. 
T  is  now  struck  twelve  ;  get  thee  to  bed,  Francisco. 

Fran. 

For  this  relief  much  thanks  :  't  is  bitter  cold, 
And  I  am  sick  at  heart, 


10  HAMLET. 

Ber. 
Have  you  had  quiet  guard  ? 


Not  a  mouse  stirring. 


Fran. 


Ber. 


Well,  good  night. 

If  you  do  meet  Horatio  and  Marcellus, 

The  rivals  of  my  watch,  bid  them  make  haste. 

Fran. 

I  think  I  hear  them. —  Stand,  ho !     Who 's  there  ? 

[Exit  Francisco. 

Horatio. 
Friends  to  this  ground. 

Mar. 
And  liegemen  to  the  Dane. 

Fran. 
Give  you  good  night 

Mar-  Spoken  within. 

O,  farewell,  honest  soldier  : 
Who  hath  relieved  you  ? 

Fran. 

Bernardo  hath  my  place. 
Give  you  good  night. 

Mar. 
Holla!  Bernardo! 

[Enter  Horatio  and  Marcellus. 

Ber. 
Say. 
What !  is  Horatio  there  ? 


Horatio. 


A  piece  of  hira 


HAMLET.  H 

Ber. 

Welcome,  Horatio  : — welcome,  good  Marcellus. 

Mar. 
What !  has  this  thing  appeared  again  to-night  ? 

Ber. 
I  have  seen  nothing. 

Mar. 

Horatio  says  't  is  but  our  fantasy, 

And  will  not  let  belief  take  hold  of  him 

Touching  this  dreaded  sight,  twice  seen  of  us : 

Therefore  I  have  entreated  him  along 

With  us  to  watch  the  minutes  of  this  night ; 

That,  if  again  this  apparition  come, 

He  may  approve  our  eyes,  and  speak  to  it. 

Horatio. 
Tush,  tush,  't  will  not  appear. 

Ber. 

Come,  let  us  once  again  assail  your  ears, 
That  are  so  fortified  against  our  story, 
What  we  two  nights  have  seen. 

Horatio. 
Well,  let  us  hear  Bernardo  speak  of  this. 

Ber. 

Last  night  of  all, 

When  yond'  same  star  that 's  westward  from  the  pole 

Had  made  his  course  to  illume  that  part  of  heaven 

Where  now  it  burns,  Marcellus  and  myself, 

The  bell  then  beating  one, — 

Mar. 

Peace,  break  thee  off;  look,  where  it  comes  again  ! 

[Enter  Ghost  from  Castle  c. 


!2  HAMLET. 

Ber. 

In  the  same  figure,  like  the  king  that 's  dead. 
Looks  it  not  like  the  king  ? 

Horatio. 
Most  like  : — it  harrows  me  with  fear  and  wonder. 

Ber. 
It  would  be  spoke  to. 

Mar. 
Speak  to  it,  Horatio. 

Horatio. 

What  art  thou,  that  usuqVst  this  time  of  night, 

Together  with  that  fair  and  warlike  form 

In  which  the  majesty  of  buried  Denmark 

Did  sometimes  march  ?  by  heaven  I  charge  thee,  speak ! 

Mar. 
It  is  offended. 

Ber. 
See,  it  stalks  away ! 

Horatio. 

Stay !  speak,  speak !     I  charge  thee,  speak ! 

\Exit  Ghost's.,  i.  E. 

Mar. 

'T  is  gone,  and  will  not  answer. 
Ber. 

How  now,  Horatio  !  you  tremble,  and  look  pale  : 
Is  not  this  something  more  than  fantasy  ? 
What  think  you  on  't  ? 

Horatio. 

Before  my  God,  I  might  not  this  believe 
Without  the  sensible  and  true  avouch 
Of  mine  own  eyes. 


HAMLET.  13 

Mar. 
Is  it  not  like  the  king  ? 

Horatio. 

As  thou  art  to  thyself : 
Such  was  the  very  armour  he  had  on 
When  he  the  ambitious  Norway  combated ; 
So  frowned  he  once,  when,  in  an  angry  parle, 
He  smote  the  sledded  Polack  on  the  ice. 
T  is  strange. 

Mar. 

Thus,  twice  before,  and  just  at  this  dead  hour, 
With  martial  stalk  hath  he  gone  by  our  watch. 

Horatio. 

In  what  particular  thought  to  work  I  know  not ; 
But,  in  the  gross  and  scope  of  my  opinion, 
This  bodes  some  strange  eruption  to  our  state. 
But,  soft,  behold  !  lo  where  it  comes  again ! 

\Re-enter  Ghost  R.  2   E 

I  '11  cross  it,  though  it  blast  me. —  Stay,  illusion  ! 
If  thou  hast  any  sound,  or  use  of  voice, 
Speak  to  me  : 

If  there  be  any  good  thing  to  be  done, 
That  may  to  thee  do  ease,  and  grace  to  me, 
Speak  to  me  : 

If  thou  art  privy  to  thy  country's  fate, 
Which,  happily,  foreknowing  may  avoid, 
O,  speak ! 

Or  if  thou  hast  uphoarded  in  thy  life 
Extorted  treasure  in  the  womb  of  earth, 
For  which,  they  say,  you  spirits  oft  walk  in  death, 
Speak  of  it : — stay,  and  speak  ! 

Mar. 

'T  is  gone. 

\_Exit  Ghost  L.  I.E. 
Ber. 

It  was  a'bout  to  speak  when  the  cock  crew. 


14  HAMLET. 

Horatio. 

And  then  it  started,  like  a  guilty  thing 
Upon  a  fearful  summons.     I  have  heard, 
The  cock,  that  is  the  trumpet  to  the  morn, 
Doth  with  his  lofty  and  shrill-sounding  throat 
Awake  the  god  of  day ;  and,  at  his  warning, 
Whether  in  sea  or  fire,  in  earth  or  air, 
The  extravagant  and  erring  spirit  hies 
To  his  confine. 

Some  say,  that  ever  'gainst  that  season  conies 
Wherein  our  Saviour's  birth  is  celebrated, 
This  bird  of  dawning  singeth  all  night  long : 
And  then,  they  say,  no  spirit  can  walk  abroad ; 
The  nights  are  wholesome ;  then  no  planets  strike ; 
No  fairy  takes,  nor  witch  hath  power  to  charm ; 
So  hallowed  and  so  gracious  is  the  time. 
But,  look,  the  morn,  in  russet  mantle  clad, 
Walks  o'er  the  dew  of  yon  high  eastern  hill. 
Break  we  our  watch  up  :  and,  by  my  advice, 
Let  us  impart  what  we  have  seen  to-night 
Unto  young  Hamlet ;  for,  upon  my  life, 
This  spirit,  dumb  to  us,  will  speak  to  him. 

\Excunt  c. 


A  ROOM  OF  STATE  IN  THE 


[Enter  the  King,  Queen,  Polonius,  Laertes,  Lords, 
and  Attendants. 

King. 

Though  yet  of  Hamlet  our  dear  brother's  death 
The  memory  be  green ;  and  that  it  us  befitted 
To  bear  our  hearts  in  grief,  and  our  whole  kingdom 
To  be  contracted  in  one  brow  of  woe  ; 
Yet  so  far  hath  discretion  fought  with  nature, 
That  we  with  wisest  sorrow  think  on  him, 
Together  with  remembrance  of  ourselves. 


HAMLET.  15 

Therefore,  our  sometime  sister,  now  our  queen, 
The  imperial  jointress  of  this  warlike  state, 
Have  we,  as  't  were  with  a  defeated  joy, — 
Taken  to  wife  :  nor  have  we  herein  barred 
Your  better  wisdoms,  which  have  freely  gone 
With  this  affair  along  : — for  all,  our  thanks. 
And  now,  Laertes,  what 's  the  news  with  you  ? 

\Laertes  kneels, 

You  told  us  of  some  suit ;  what  is 't,  Laertes  ? 
You  cannot  speak  of  reason  to  the  Dane, 
And  lose  your  voice  :  what  wouldst  thou  beg,  Laertes, 
That  shall  not  be  my  offer,  not  thy  asking  ? 
The  head  is  not  more  native  to  the  heart, 
The  hand  more  instrumental  to  the  mouth, 
Than  is  the  throne  of  Denmark  to  thy  father. 
What  wouldst  thou  have,  Laertes  ? 

Laer. 

Dread  my  lord, 

Your  leave  and  favor  to  return  to  France ; 

From  whence  though  willingly  I  came  to  Denmark, 

To  show  my  .duty  in  your  coronation; 

Yet  now,  I  must  confess,  that  duty  done, 

My  thoughts  and  wishes  bend  again  toward  France, 

And  bow  them  to  your  gracious  leave  and  pardon. 

King. 
Have  you  your  father's  leave  ?     What  says  Polonius  ? 

Pol 

He  hath,  my  lord,  wrung  from  me  my  slow  leave 
By  laboursome  petition  ;  and,  at  last, 
Upon  his  will  I  sealed  my  hard  consent : 
I  do  beseech  you,  give  him  leave  to  go. 

King. 

Take  thy  fair  hour,  Laertes  ;  time  be  thine, 
And  thy  best  graces  spend  it  at  thy  will !  — 

[Enter  Hamlet  c. 
But  now,  my  cousin  Hamlet,  and  my  son, — 


1 6  HAMLET. 

Hamlet.  \Aside 

A  little  more  than  kin  and  less  than  kind. 

King. 
How  is  it  that  the  clouds  still  hang  on  you  ? 

Hamlet. 

Not  so,  my  lord ;  I  am  too  much  i'  the  sun. 

[  The  King,  Polonius,  and  Laertes  retire  R, 

Queen. 

Good  Hamlet,  cast  thy  nighted  colour  off, 

And  let  thine  eye  look  like  a  friend  on  Denmark. 

Do  not  forever  with  thy  vailed  lids 

Seek  for  thy  noble  father  in  the  dust : 

Thou  know'st  't  is  common, —  all  that  live  must  die, 

Passing  through  nature  to  eternity. 

Hamlet. 
Ay,  madam,  it  is  common. 

Queen. 

If  it  be, 

Why  seems  it  so  particular  with  thee  ? 

Hamlet. 

Seems,  madam !  nay,  it  is ;  I  know  not  seems. 
T  is  not  alone  my  inky  cloak,  good  mother, 
Nor  customary  suits  of  solemn  black, 
No,  nor  the  fruitful  river  in  the  eye, 
Nor  the  dejected  haviour  of  the  visage, 
Together  with  all  forms,  modes,  shows  of  grief, 
That  can  denote  me  truly :  these,  indeed,  seem, 
For  they  are  actions  that  a  man  might  play  : 
But  I  have  that  within  which  passeth  show; 
These  but  the  trappings  and  the  suits  of  woe. 

[Exit  Laertes,  leaving  the   King  and  Polonius. 
The  King  advances. 


HAMLET.  17 

Xing. 

'T  is  sweet  and  commendable  in  your  nature,  Hamlet, 

To  give  these  mourning  duties  to  your  father: 

But,  you  must  know,  your  father  lost  a  father; 

That  father  lost,  lost  his  ;  and  the  survivor  bound, 

In  filial  obligation,  for  some  term 

To  do  obsequious  sorrow ;  but  to  perseVer 

In  obstinate  condolement,  is  a  course 

Of  impious  stubbornness ;  't  is  unmanly  grief : 

It  shows  a  will  most  incorrect  to  heaven. 

We  pray  you,  throw  to  earth 

This  unprevailing  woe ;  and  think  of  us 

As  of  a  father :  for  let  the  world  take  note, 

You  are  the  most  immediate  to  our  throne ; 

Our  chiefest  courtier,  cousin,  and  our  son. 

Queen. 

Let  not  thy  mother  lose  her  prayers,  Hamlet : 
I  pray  thee,  stay  with  us ;  go  noi  to  Wittenberg. 

Hamlet. 
I  shall  in  all  my  best  obey  you,  madam. 

King. 

Why,  't  is  a  loving  and  a  fair  reply  : 

Be  as  ourself  in  Denmark. — Madam,  come. 

\Pokmitts  advances  to  R.  i.  E. 
This  gentle  and  unforced  accord  of  Hamlet 
Sits  smiling  to  my  heart :  in  grace  whereof, 
No  jocund  health  that  Denmark  drinks  to-day, 
But  the  great  cannon  to  the  clouds  shall  tell ; 
And  the  king's  rouse  the  heavens  shall  bruit  again, 
Re-speaking  earthly  thunder. 

\_March.     Exeunt  all  except  Hamlet 

Hamlet. 

O,  that  this  too,  too  solid  flesh  would  melt, 

Thaw,  and  resolve  itself  into  a  dew  ! 

Or  that  the  Everlasting  had  not  fixed 

His  canon  'gainst  self-slaughter !     O  God  !     O  God  ! 


1 8  HAMLET. 

How  weary,  stale,  flat,  and  unprofitable 

Seem  to  me  all  the  uses  of  this  world  ! 

Fie  on  't !  O,  fie !  't  is  an  unweeded  garden, 

That  grows  to  seed ;  things  rank  and  gross  in  nature 

Possess  it  merely.     That  it  should  come  to  this  ! 

But  two  months  dead ! — nay,  not  so  much,  not  two  : 

So  excellent  a  king  ;  that  was,  to  this, 

Hyperion  to  a  satyr  :  so  loving  to  my  mother, 

That  he  might  not  beteem  the  winds  of  heaven 

Visit  her  face  too  roughly.     Heaven  and  earth  ! 

Must  I  remember  ?  why,  she  would  hang  on  him, 

As  if  increase  of  appetite  had  grown 

By  what  it  fed  on  :  and  yet,  within  a  month, — 

Let  me  not  think  on  't; — Frailty,  thy  name  is  woman  !  — 

A  little  month ;  or  ere  those  shoes  were  old 

With  which  she  followed  my  poor  father's  body, 

Like  Niobe,  all  tears  ;  —  why  she,  even  she, — 

O  God  !  a  beast,  that  wants  discourse  of  reason, 

Would  have  mourned  longer, —  married  with  my  uncle; 

My  father's  brother ;  but  no  more  like  my  father 

Than  I  to  Hercules. 

It  is  not,  nor  it  cannot  come  to,  good : 

But  break,  my  heart, — for  I  must  hold  my  tongue  ! 

[Enter  Horatio,  Marcellus,  and  Bernardo  c- 

Horatio. 
Hail  to  your  lordship  !  I  am  glad  to  see  you  well : 

Hamlet. 
Horatio, —  or  I  do  forget  myself. 

Horatio. 
The  same,  my  lord,  and  your  poor  servant  ever. 

Hamlet. 

Sir,  my  good  friend ;  I  '11  change  that  name  with  you  ; 
And  what  make  you  from  Wittenberg,  Horatio  ? — 
Marcellus  ? 

Mar. 
My  good  lord, — 


HAMLET.  19 

Hamlet. 

I  am  very  glad  to  see  you. —  Good  even,  sir. — 
But  what,  in  faith,  make  you  from  Wittenberg  ? 

Horatio. 

A  truant  disposition,  good  my  lord. 
Hamlet. 

I  would  not  hear  your  enemy  say  so  ; 

Nor  shall  you  do  mine  ear  that  violence. 

To  make  it  truster  of  your  own  report 

Against  yourself:  I  know  you  are  no  truant. 

But  what  is  your  affair  in  Elsinore  ? 

We  '11  teach  you  to  drink  deep  ere  you  depart. 

Horatio. 

My  lord,  I  came  to  see  your  father's  funeral. 
Hamlet. 

I  pray  thee,  do  not  mock  me,  fellow-student ; 
I  think  it  was  to  see  my  mother's  wedding. 

Horatio. 

Indeed,  my  lord,  it  followed  hard  upon. 
Hamlet. 

Thrift,  thrift,  Horatio  !  the  funeral  baked  meats 
Did  coldly  furnish  forth  the  marriage  tables. 
Would  I  had  met  my  dearest  foe  in  heaven 
Or  ever  I  had  seen  that  day,  Horatio !  — 
My  father, —  methinks  I  see  my  father. 

[All  start. 

Horatio. 
O,  where,  my  lord  ? 

Hamlet. 
In  my  mind's  eye,  Horatio. 

Horatio.  \Mcditatively. 

I  saw  him  once ;  he  was  a  goodly  king. 


20  .  HAMLET. 

Hamlft. 

He  was  a  man,  take  him  for  all  in  all, 
I  shall  not  look  upon  his  like  again. 

Horatio.  [  IVith  hesitation. 

My  lord,  I  think  I  saw  him  yesternight 

Hamlet. 
Saw  who  ? 

Horatio. 
My  lord,  the  king  your  father. 

Hamlet. 
The  king  my  father ! 

Horatio. 

Season  your  admiration  for  a  while 
With  an  attent  ear;  till  I  may  deliver 
Upon  the  witness  of  these  gentlemen 
This  marvel  to  you. 

Hamlet. 
For  God's  love,  let  me  hear! 

Horatio. 

Two  nights  together  had  these  gentlemen, 

Marcellus  and  Bernardo,  on  their  watch, 

In  the  dead  vast  and  middle  of  the  night, 

Been  thus  encountered.     A  figure  like  your  father, 

Armed  at  all  points  exactly,  cap-a-pie, 

Appears  before  them,  and  with  solemn  march 

Goes  slow  and  stately  by  them  :  thrice  he  walked 

By  their  oppressed  and  fear-surprised  eyes, 

Within  his  truncheon's  length ;  whilst  they,  distilled 

Almost  to  jelly  with  the  act  of  fear, 

Stand  dumb,  and  speak  not  to  him.     This  to  me 

In  dreadful  secrecy  impart  they  did  ; 

And  I  with  them  the  third  night  kept  the  watch  : 

Where,  as  they  had  delivered,  both  in  time, 

Form  of  the  thing,  each  word  made  true  and  good, 

The  apparition  comes, 


HAMLET.  21 

Hamlet. 
But  where  was  this  ? 

Mar. 
My  lord,  upon  the  platform  where  we  watched. 

Hamlet. 
Did  you  not  speak  to  it  ? 

Horatio. 

My  lord,  I  did ; 

But  answer  made  it  none  :  yet  once  methought 

It  lifted  up  its  head,  and  did  address 

Itself  to  motion,  like  as  it  would  speak : 

But,  even  then,  the  morning  cock  crew  loud; 

And  at  the  sound  it  shrunk  in  haste  away, 

And  vanished  from  our  sight. 

Hamlft. 
T  is  very  strange. 

Horatio. 

As  I  do  live,  my  honoured  lord,  't  is  true ; 
And  we  did  think  it  writ  down  in  our  duty 
To  let  you  know  of  it 

Hamlet. 

Indeed,  indeed,  sirs,  but  this  troubles  me. 
Hold  you  the  watch  to-night  ? 

Mar.,  Ber. 
We  do,  my  lord. 

Hamlet. 
Armed,  say  you  ? 

Horatio. 
Armed,  my  lord. 

Hamlet. 
From  top  to  toe  ? 


2a  HAMLET. 

Horatio. 
My  lord,  from  head  to  foot. 

Hamlet. 
Then  saw  you  not  his  face  ? 

Horatio. 
O,  yes,  my  lord ;  he  wore  his  beaver  up. 

Hamlet. 
What !  looked  he  frowningly  ? 

Horatio. 
A  countenance  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger. 

Hamlet. 
Pale  or  red  ? 

Horatio. 
Nay,  very  pale. 

Hamlet. 
And  fixed  his  eyes  upon  you  ? 

Horatio. 
Most  constantly. 

Hamlet. 
I  would  I  had  been  there. 

Horatio. 
It  would  have  much  amazed  you. 

Hamlet. 
Very  like,  very  like.  Stayed  it  long  ? 

Horatio. 
While  one  with  moderate  haste  might  tell  a  hundred. 

Mar.,  Ber. 
Longer,  longer. 


HAMLET.  23 

Horatio. 


Not  when  I  saw  it. 


Hamiet. 
His  beard  was  grizzled, — no? 

Horatio. 

It  was,  as  I  have  seen  it  in  his  life, 
A  sable  silvered. 

Hamlet. 

I  will  watch  to-night; 
Perchance  't  will  walk  again. 

Horatio. 
I  warrant  't  will. 

Hamlet. 

If  it  assume  my  noble  father's  person, 
I  '11  speak  to  it,  though  hell  itself  should  gape, 
And  bid  me  hold  my  peace.     I  pray  you  all, 
If  you  have  hitherto  concealed  this  sight, 
Let  it  be  tenable  in  your  silence  still ; 
And  whatsoever  else  shall  hap  to-night, 
Give  it  an  understanding,  but  no  tongue  : 
I  will  requite  your  loves.     So,  fare  ye  well : 
Upon  the  platform,  'twixt  eleven  and  twelve, 
I  '11  visit  you. 

Horatio. 
Our  duty  to  your  honour. 

Hamlet. 

Your  loves,  as  mine  to  you :  farewell. 

[Exeunt  Horatio,  Marcet 7us,  and  Bernardo  c. 
My  father's  spirit  in  arms !  all  is  not  well ; 
I  doubt  some  foul  play :  would  the  night  were  come ! 
Till  then  sit  still,  my  soul :  foul  deeds  will  rise, 
Though  all  the  earth  o'erwhelm  them,  to  men's  eyes. 

[Exit  Hamlet  L. 


24  HAMLET. 

[Enter  Laertes  and  Ophelia  c. 

Laer. 

My  necessaries  are  embarked  :  farewell : 
And,  sister,  as  the  winds  give  benefit, 
And  convoy  is  assistant,  do  not  sleep, 
But  let  me  hear  from  you. 

Oph. 
Do  you  doubt  that  ? 

Laer. 

For  Hamlet,  and  the  trifling  of  his  favour, 
Hold  it  a  fashion,  and  a  toy  in  blood ; 
A  violet  in  the  youth  of  primy  nature, 
Forward,  not  permanent,  sweet,  not  lasting, 
The  perfume  and  suppliance  of  a  minute; 
No  more. 

Oph. 
No  more  but  so  ? 

Laer. 

Think  it  no  more : 

For  nature,  crescent,  does  not  grow  alone 

In  thews  and  bulk  :  but,  as  this  temple  waxes, 

The  inward  service  of  the  mind  and  soul 

Grows  wide  withal.     Perhaps  he  loves  you  now ; 

And  now  no  soil  nor  cautel  does  besmirch 

The  virtue  of  his  will :  but  you  must  fear, 

His  greatness  weighed,  his  will  is  not  his  own ; 

For  he  himself  is  subject  to  his  birth  : 

He  may  not,  as  unvalued  persons  do, 

Carve  for  himself;  for  on  his  choice  depends 

The  safety  and  the  health  of  the  whole  state. 

Fear  it,  Ophelia,  fear  it,  my  dear  sister ; 

And  keep  you  in  the  rear  of  your  affection, 

Out  of  the  shot  and  danger  of  desire. 

The  chariest  maid  is  prodigal  enough, 

If  she  unmask  her  beauty  to  the  moon. 


HAMLET.  25 

Oph. 

I  shall  the  effect  of  this  good  lesson  keep, 

As  watchman  to  my  heart.     But,  good  my  brother, 

Do  not,  as  some  ungracious  pastors  do, 

Show  me  the  steep  and  thorny  way  to  heaven; 

Whilst,  like  a  puffed  and  reckless  libertine, 

Himself  the  primrose  path  of  dalliance  treads, 

And  recks  not  his  own  read. 

Laer. 

O,  fear  me  not. 

1  stay  too  long : — but  here  my  father  comes. 
A  double  blessing  is  a  double  grace ; 
Occasion  smiles  upon  a  second  leave. 

[Enter  Polonius  R 

Pol.  {Laertes  kneels. 

Yet  here,  Laertes !  aboard,  aboard,  for  shame  ! 
The  wind  sits  in  the  shoulder  of  your  sail, 
And  you  are  stayed  for.     There, —  my  blessing  with  you  ! 
[Laying  his  hand  on  Laertes*  head. 
And  these  few  precepts  in  thy  memory 
Look  thou  character.     Give  thy  thoughts  no  tongue, 
Nor  any  unproportioned  thought  his  act. 
Be  thou  familiar,  but  by  no  means  vulgar. 
The  friends  thou  hast,  and  their  adoption  tried, 
Grapple  them  to  thy  soul  with  hooks  of  steel ; 
But  do  not  dull  thy  palm  with  entertainment 
Of  each  new-hatched,  unfledged  comrade.     Beware 
Of  entrance  to  a  quarrel ;  but  being  in, 
Bear 't,  that  the  opposer  may  beware  of  thee. 
Give  every  man  thine  ear,  but  few  thy  voice  : 
Take  each  man's  censure,  but  reserve  thy  judgment 
Costly  thy  habit  as  thy  purse  can  buy, 
But  not  expressed  in  fancy ;  rich,  not  gaudy ; 
For  the  apparel  oft  proclaims  the  man ; 
And  they  in  France  of  the  best  rank  and  station 
Are  most  select  and  generous,  chief  in  that. 
Neither  a  borrower  nor  a  lender  be : 
For  loan  oft  loses  both  itself  and  friend ; 


26  HAMLET. 

And  borrowing  dulls  the  edge  of  husbandry. 
This  above  all,  —  to  thine  own  self  be  true; 
And  it  must  follow,  as  the  night  the  day, 
Thou  canst  not  then  be  false  to  any  man. 
Farewell  :  my  blessing  season  this  in  thee  ! 

Laer.  \Rises. 

Most  humbly  do  I  take  my  leave,  my  lord. 
Farewell,  Ophelia  ;  and  remember  well 
What  I  have  said  to  you. 

Oph. 

'T  is  in  my  memory  locked, 
And  you  yourself  shall  keep  the  key  of  it; 

Laer. 

Farewell. 

\ExitLaertes, 

Pol. 
What  is  't,  Ophelia,  he  hath  said  to  you  ? 

Oph. 
So  please  you,  something  touching  the  Lord  Hamlet. 


Marry,  well  bethought  : 

'T  is  told  me,  he  hath  very  oft  of  late 

Given  private  time  to  you  ;  and  you  yourself 

Have  of  your  audience  been  most  free  and  bounteous 

If  it  be  so  (as  so  't  is  put  on  me, 

And  that  in  way  of  caution),  I  must  tell  you, 

You  do  not  understand  yourself  so  clearly 

As  it  behoves  my  daughter  and  your  honour. 

\Vhat  is  between  you  ?  give  me  up  the  truth. 

Oph. 

He  hath,  my  lord,  of  late  made  many  tenders 
Of  his  affection  to  me. 


HAMLET.  27 

Pol. 

Affection  !  pooh  !  you  speak  like  a  green  girl, 
Unsifted  in  such  perilous  circumstance. 
Do  you  believe  his  tenders,  as  you  call  them  ? 

Oph. 
I  do  not  know,  my  lord,  what  I  should  think. 

Pol. 

Marry,  I  '11  teach  you ;  think  yourself  a  baby ; 
That  you  have  ta'en  these  tenders  for  true  pay, 
Which  are  not  sterling.     Tender  yourself  more  dearly ; 
Or  you  '11  tender  me  a  fool. 

Oph. 

My  lord,  he  hath  importuned  me  with  love 
In  honourable  fashion. 

Pol. 
Ay,  fashion  you  may  call  it ;  go  to,  go  to. 

Oph. 

And  hath  given  countenance  to  his  speech,  my  lord, 
With  almost  all  the  holy  vows  of  heaven. 

Pol. 

Ay,  springes  to  catch  woodcocks.     I  do  know, 

When  the  blood  burns,  how  prodigal  the  soul 

Lends  tne  tongue  vows. 

This  is  for  all, — 

I  would  not,  in  plain  terms,  from  this  time  forth, 

Have  you  so  slander  any  moment's  leisure, 

As  to  give  words  or  talk  with  the  Lord  Hamlet. 

Look  to  't,  I  charge  you  :  come  your  ways. 

Oph. 

I  shall  obey,  my  lord. 

\Exetmt  Polonius  and  Ophelia  R 


2g  HAMLET. 

S>crne  tH^irtJ. — THE  PLATFORM.     DIM  STARLIGHT. 
\Enter  Hamlet  and  Horatio,  to  Marcellus,  who  is  on  guard. 

Hamlet. 
The  air  bites  shrewdly ;  it  is  very  cold. 

Horatio. 
It  is  a  nipping  and  an  eager  air. 

Hamlet. 
What  hour  now  ? 

Horatio. 
I  think  it  lacks  of  twelve. 

Mar. 
No,  it  is  struck. 

Horatio. 

Indeed  ?     I  heard  it  not :  then  it  draws  near  the  season 
Wherein  the  spirit  held  his  wont  to  walk. 

\A  flourish  of  trumpets  :  ordnance  shot  off,  within, 
What  does  this  mean,  my  lord  ? 

Hamlet. 

The  king  doth  wake  to-night,  and  takes  his  rouse, 
And,  as  he  drains  his  draughts  of  Rhenish  down, 
The  kettle-drum  and  trumpet  thus  bray  out 
The  triumph  of  his  pledge. 

Horatio. 
Is  it  a  custom  ? 

Hamlet. 

Ay,  marry,  is  't : 

But  to  my  mind, —  though  I  am  native  here, 
And  to  the  manner  born, — it  is  a  custom 
More  honoured  in  the  broach  than  the  observance. 


HAMLET.  29 

Horatio. 
Look,  my  lord,  it  conies  ! 

\Enter  Ghost  R.  I.E. 
Hamlet. 

Angels  and  ministers  of  grace  defend  us !  — 

Be  thou  a  spirit  of  health  or  goblin  damned, 

Bring  with  thee  airs  from  heaven  or  blasts  from  hell, 

Be  thy  intents  wicked  or  charitable, 

Thou  comest  in  such  a  questionable  shape, 

That  I  will  speak  to  thee :  I  '11  call  thee  Hamlet, 

King,  father,  royal  Dane  :   O,  answer  me ! 

Let  me  not  burst  in  ignorance ;  but  tell 

Why  thy  candnised  bones,  hearsed  in  death, 

Have  burst  their  cerements ;  why  the  sepulchre 

Wherein  we  saw  thee  quietly  in-urned, 

Hath  oped  his  ponderous  and  marble  jaws, 

To  cast  thee  up  again !     What  may  this  mean, 

That  thou,  dead  corse,  again,  in  complete  steel, 

Re-visit'st  thus  the  glimpses  of  the  moon, 

Making  night  hideous  ;  and  we  fools  of  nature, 

So  horridly  to  shake  our  disposition, 

With  thoughts  beyond  the  reaches  of  our  souls  ? 

Say,  why  is  this  ?  wherefore  ?  what  should  we  do  ? 

[  The  Ghost  beckons  Hamlet. 

Horatio. 

It  beckons  you  to  go  away  with  it, 
As  if  it  some  impartment  did  desire 
To  you  alone. 

Mar.  [Ghost  beckons. 

Look,  with  what  courteous  action 

It  waves  you  to  a  more  removed  ground: 

But  do  not  go  with  it. 

Horatio. 
No,  by  no  means. 

Hamlet. 
It  will  not  speak ;  then  will  I  follow  it. 


30  HAMLET. 

Horatio, 
Do  not,  my  lord. 

Hamlet. 

Why,  what  should  be  the  fear  ? 

I  do  not  set  my  life  at  a  pin's  fee ; 

And  for  my  soul,  what  can  it  do  to  that, 

Being  a  thing  immortal  as  itself  ?  [  Ghost  beckons. 

It  waves  me  forth  again ;  —  I  '11  follow  it. 

Horatio. 

What  if  it  tempt  you  toward  the  flood,  my  lord, 

Or  to  the  dreadful  summit  of  the  clitf 

That  beetles  o'er  his  base  into  the  sea, 

And  there  assume  some  other  horrible  form, 

Which  might  deprive  your  sovereigntv  of  reason, 

And  draw  you  into  madness  ?  [  Ghost  beckons. 

Hamlet. 

It  waves  me  still. — 
Go  on ;  I  '11  follow  thee. 

Mar. 
You  shall  not  go,  my  lord. 

\Horatio  and  Marccllus  seize  Hamlet  wd  strive  to 
hold  him. 

Hamlet. 
Hold  off  your  hands. 

Horatio. 
Be  ruled ;  you  shall  not  go. 

Hamlet. 

My  fate  cries  out, 

And  makes  each  petty  artery  in  this  body 
As  hardy  as  the  Nemean  lion's  nerve. 

[  Ghost  beckons. 

Still  am  I  called  : — unhand  me,  gentlemen  ;  — 
By  heaven,  I  '11  make  a  ghost  of  him  that  lets  me :  — 


HAMLET.  31 

I  say,  away !  — 

\Breakingfrom  them. 
Go  on ;  I  '11  follow  thee. 

j  Exeunt  Ghost  and  Hamlet.  Horatio  and  Mar- 
cellus  follow  slowly. 


l£>cene  JFottrtfr. — ANOTHER  PART  OF  THE  PLATFORM. 

[Enter  Ghost  and  Hamlet. 

Hamlet. 
Whither  wilt  thou  lead  me  ?     Speak;  I  '11  go  no  further. 

Ghost. 
Mark  me. 

Hamlet. 
1  will. 

Ghost. 

My  hour  is  almost  come, 

When  I  to  sulphurous  and  tormenting  flames 

Must  render  up  myself. 

Hamlet. 
Alas !  poor  ghost ! 

Ghost. 

Pity  me  not,  but  lend  thy  serious  hearing 
To  what  I  shall  unfold. 

Hamlet. 
Speak ;  I  am  bound  to  hear. 

Ghost. 
So  art  thou  to  revenge,  when  thou  shalt  hear. 

Hamlet. 
What? 


32  HAMLET. 

Ghost. 

I  am  thy  father's  spirit; 

Doomed  for  a  certain  term  to  walk  the  night, 

And  for  the  day  confined  to  fast  in  fires, 

Till  the  foul  crimes  done  in  my  days  of  nature 

Are  burnt  and  purged  away.     But  that  I  am  forbid 

To  tell  the  secrets  of  my  prison-house, 

I  could  a  tale  unfold,  whose  lightest  word 

Would  harrow  up  thy  soul ;  freeze  thy  young  blood ; 

Make  thy  two  eyes,  like  stars,  start  from  their  spheres 

Thy  knotted  and  combined  locks  to  part, 

And  each  particular  hair  to  stand  on  end, 

Like  quills  upon  the  fretful  porcupine : 

But  this  eternal  blazon  must  not  be 

To  ears  of  flesh  and  blood. —  List,  list,  O,  list!  — 

If  thou  didst  ever  thy  dear  father  love, — 

Hamlet. 

0  Heaven ! 

Ghost. 
Revenge  his  foul  and  most  unnatural  murder. 

Hamlet. 
Murder ! 

Ghost. 

Murder  most  foul,  as  in  the  best  it  is  ; 
But  this  most  foul,  strange,  and  unnatural. 

Hamlet. 

Haste  me  to  know  't,  that  I,  with  wings  as  swift 
As  meditation  or  the  thoughts  of  love, 
May  sweep  to  my  revenge. 

Ghost. 

1  find  thee  apt; 
Now,  Hamlet,  hear : 

T  is  given  out  that,  sleeping  in  mine  orchard, 

A  serpent  stung  me ;  so  the  whole  ear  of  Denmark 


HAMT.KT.  33 

is  by  a  forged  process  of  my  death 
Rankly  abused :  but  know,  thou  noble  youth, 
The  serpent  that  did  sting  thy  father's  life 
Now  wears  his  crown. 

Hamlet. 

O,  my   prophetic  soul ! 
My  uncle ! 

Ghost. 

Ay,  that  incestuous,  that  adulterate  beast, 

With  witchcraft  of  his  wit,  with  traitorous  gifts, 

Won  to  his  shameful  lust 

The  will  of  my  most  seeming-virtuous  queen : 

But,  soft!  methinks  I  scent  the  morning  air; 

Brief  let  me  be. —  Sleeping  within  mine  orchard 

My  custom  always  in  the  afternoon, 

Upon  my  secure  hour  thy  uncle  stole, 

With  juice  of  cursed  hebenon,  in  a  vial, 

And  in  the  porches  of  mine  ears  did  pour 

The  leperous  distilment ;  whose  effect 

Holds  such  an  enmity  with  blood  of  man 

That,  swift  as  quicksilver,  it  courses  through 

The  natural  gates  and  alleys  of  the  body. 

Thus  was  I,  sleeping,  by  a  brother's  hand 

Of  life,  of  crown,  of  queen,  at  once  despatched  ? 

Cut  off  even  in  the  blossoms  of  my  sin, 

Unhouseled,  disappointed,  unaneled ; 

No  reckoning  made,  but  sent  to  my  account 

With  all  my  imperfections  on  my  head : 

Hamlet. 
O,  horrible!  O,  horrible!  most  horrible! 

Ghost. 

If  thou  hast  nature  in  thee,  bear  it  not ; 
Let  not  the  royal  bed  of  Denmark  be 
A  couch  for  luxury  and  damned  incest. 
But,  howsoever  thou  pursuest  this  act, 
Taint  not  thy  mind,  nor  let  thy  soul  contrive 
3 


24  HAMLET. 

Against  thy  mother  aught :  leave  her  to  heaven, 
And  to  those  thorns  that  in  her  bosom  lodge, 
To  prick  and  sting  her.     Fare  thee  well  at  once  : 
The  glow-worm  shows  the  matin  to  be  near, 
And  'gins  to  pale  his  uneffectual  fire : 
Adieu,  adieu!  Hamlet,  remember  me. 

[Exit  Ghost 

Hamlet. 

O,  all  you  host  of  heaven !  O,  earth  !  what  else  ? 
And  shall  I  couple  hell?  —  O,  hold,  my  heart; 
And  you,  my  sinews,  grow  not  instant  old, 
But  bear  me  stiffly  up. —  Remember  thee  ! 
Ay,  thou  poor  ghost,  while  memory  holds  a  seat 
In  this  distracted  globe.     Remember  thee  ! 
Yea,  from  the  table  of  my  memory 
I  '11  wipe  away  all  trivial  fond  records, 
All  saws  of  books,  all  forms,  all  pressures  past, 
That  youth  and  observation  copied  there ; 
And  thy  commandment  all  alone  shall  live 
Within  the  book  and  volume  of  my  brain, 
Unmixed  with  baser  matter :  yes,  by  heaven. — 
I  have  sworn  't. 

Horatio.  [  Within. 

My  lord  !  my  lord  !  — 

Mar.  \Within. 

Lord  Hamlet, — 

Horatio.  [  Within 

Heaven  secure  him ! 

Hamlet. 
So  be  it ! 

Horatio.  [  Within. 

Illo,  ho,  ho,  my  lord ! 

Hamlet. 
Hillo,  ho,  ho,  boy !  come,  bird,  come. 


HAMLET.  35 

\Enter  Horatio  and  Marcellus. 
Mar. 
How  is  't,  my  noble  lord  ? 

Horatio. 
What  news,  my  lord  ? 

Hamlet. 
O,  wonderful ! 

Horatio. 
Good  my  lord,  tell  it. 

Hamlet. 
No ;  you  '11  reveal  it. 

Horatio. 
Not  I,  my  lord,  by  heaven. 

Mar. 
Nor  I,  my  lord. 

Hamlet. 

How  say  you,  then;  would  heart  of  man  once  think  it  ?— 
But  you  '11  be  secret  ? 

Horatio,  Mar. 
Ay,  by  heaven,  my  lord. 

Hamlet. 

There  's  ne'er  a  villain  dwelling  in  all  Denmark — 
But  he  's  an  arrant  knave. 

Horatio. 

There  needs  no  ghost,  my  lord,  come  from  the  grave 
To  tell  us  this. 

Hamlet. 

Why,  right ;  you  are  i'  the  right : 

And  so,  without  more  circumstance  at  all, 

I  hold  it  fit  that  we  shake  hands  and  part : 


30  HAMLET. 

You,  as  your  business  and  desire  shall  point  you, — 

For  every  man  has  business  and  desire, 

Such  as  it  is ; — and  for  mine  own  poor  part, 

Look  you,  I  '11  go  pray.  {Retiring 

Horatio. 

These  are  but  wild  and  whirling  words,  my  lord. 

[  Crosses  to  L. 

Hamlet. 

I  'm  sorry  they  offend  you,  heartily ; 
Yes,  faith,  heartily. 

Horatio. 
There  's  no  offence,  my  lord. 

Hamlet. 

Yes,  by  Saint  Patrick,  but  there  is,  my  lord, 

And  much  offence  too.     Touching  this  vision  here, — 

\Marcellus  advances  quickly  R 
It  is  an  honest  ghost,  that  let  me  tell  you : 
For  your  desire  to  know  what  is  between  us, 
O'ermaster  it  as  you  may.     And  now,  good  friends, 
As  you  are  friends,  scholars,  and  soldiers, 
Give  me  one  poor  request. 

Horatio. 
What  is  't,  my  lord  ?   we  will. 

Hamlet. 
Never  make  known  what  you  have  seen  to-night. 

Horatio,  Mar. 
My  lord,  we  will  not. 

Hamlet. 
Nay,  but  swear  't. 

Horatio.  [Swearing. 

In  faith, 
My  lord,  not  I. 


HAMLET.  37 

Mar.  [Swearing. 

Nor  I,  my  lord,  in  faith. 

Hamlet. 
Upon  my  sword. 

Mar. 
We  have  sworn,  my  lord,  already. 

Hamlet. 
Indeed,  upon  my  sword,  indeed. 

Ghost.  \Beneath. 

Swear. 

Hamlet. 

Ah,  ha,  boy !  say'st  thou  so  ?  art  thou  there,  true-penny  ? 
Come  on : 
Consent  to  swear. 

Horatio. 
Propose  the  oath,  my  lord. 

Hamlet. 

Never  to  speak  of  this  that  you  have  seen. 
Swear,  by  my  sword. 

Ghost. 
Swear. 

Hamlet. 

Hie  et  ubique  ?  then  we  '11  shift  our  ground. — 
Come  hither,  gentlemen, 
And  lay  your  hands  again  upon  my  sword : 
Never  to  speak  of  this  that  you  have  seen, 
Swear  by  my  sword. 

Ghost.  \Beneath. 

Swear. 

Horatio. 
O,  day  and  night,  but  this  is  wondrous  strange  ! 


38  HAMLET. 

Hamlet. 

And  therefore  as  a  stranger  give  it  welcome. 
There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Horatio, 
Than  are  dreamt  of  in  your  philosophy. 
But  come ; — 

Here,  as  before,  never,  so  help  you  mercy, 
How  strange  or  odd  soe'er  I  bear  myself, — 
As  I,  perchance,  hereafter  shall  think  meet 
To  put  an  antic  disposition  on, — 
That  you,  at  such  times  seeing  me,  never  shall, 
With  arms  encumbered  thus,  or  this  head-shake, 
Or  by  pronouncing  of  some  doubtful  phrase, 
As,  "Well,  well,  we  know;" — or,   "We  could,  an  if  we 

would ;  "— 
Dr,  "If  we  list  to  speak;" — or,  "There  be,  an  if  they 

might;"— 

Dr  such  ambiguous  giving  out,  to  note 
fhat  you  know  aught  of  me  :  —  this  not  to  do, 
So  grace  and  mercy  at  your  most  need  help  you. 

Ghost.  {Beneath. 

Swear. 

Hamlet. 

Rest,  rest,  perturbed  spirit !  —  So,  gentlemen, 
With  all  my  love  I  do  commend  me  to  you : 
And  what  so  poor  a  man  as  Hamlet  is 
May  do,  to  express  his  love  and  friending  to  you, 
God  willing,  shall  not  lack.     Let  us  go  in  together : 
And  still  your  fingers  on  your  lips,  I  pray. 
The  time  is  out  of  joint :  — O,  cursed  spite, 
That  ever  I  was  born  to  set  it  right ! — 
Nay,  come,  let 's  go  together. 

{Picture. 

CURTAIN. 


Jfecnte  jFtret.  — A  ROOM  IN  THE  PALACE. 

[Enter  Ophelia  and  Polonius,  meeting. 

Pol. 
How  now,  Ophelia !  what 's  the  matter  ? 

Oph. 
Alas !  my  lord.  I  have  been  so  affrighted ! 

Pol. 

With  what,  i'  the  name  of  heaven  ? 
Oph. 

My  lord,  as  I  was  sewing  in  my  chamber, 
Lord  Hamlet, —  with  his  doublet  all  unbraced; 
No  hat  upon  his  head ;  he  comes  before  me. 

Pol. 
What  said  he  ? 

Oph. 

He  took  me  by  the  wrist,  and  held  me  hard ; 

Then  goes  he  to  the  length  of  all  his  arm ; 

And,  with  his  other  hand  thus  o'er  his  brow, 

He  falls  to  such  perusal  of  my  face 

As  he  would  draw  it.     Long  stayed  he  so ; 

At  last, —  a  little  shaking  of  mine  arm, 

And  thrice  his  head  thus  waving  up  and  down, — = 

He  raised  a  sigh  so  piteous  and  profound, 

That  it  did  seem  to  shatter  all  his  bulk, 

And  end  his  being  :  that  done,  he  lets  me  go : 

And,  with  his  head  over  his  shoulder  turned, 

He  seemed  to  find  his  way  without  his  eyes ; 

For  out  of  doors  he  went  without  their  help, 

And  to  the  last,  bended  their  light  on  me. 


4O  HAMLET. 

Pol. 
Mad  for  thy  love  ? 

Ofh. 

My  lord,  I  do  not  know, 
But  I  do  fear  it. 

Pol. 

Come,  go  with  me: 

This  is  the  very  ecstasy  of  love. 

I  am  sorry, — 

What!  have  you  given  him  any  hard  words  of  late  ? 

Oph. 

Vo,  my  good  lord ;  but,  as  you  did  command, 
I  did  repel  his  letters,  and  denied 
His  access  to  me. 

Pol. 

That  hath  made  him  mad. 

This  must  be  known ;  which,  being  kept  close,  might  mov6 

More  grief  to  hide  than  hate  to  utter  love. 

\Exeunt  Polonius  and  Ophelia  L.  i.  E. 

\Enter  King,  Rosencrantz,  and  Guildenstern  c, 
King. 

Welcome,  dear  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern ! 
Moreover  that  we  much  did  long  to  see  you, 
The  need  we  have  to  use  you  did  provoke 
Our  hasty  sending.     Something  have  you  heard 
Of  Hamlet's  transformation ;   so  I  call  it, 
Since  nor  the  exterior  nor  the  inward  man 
Resembles  that  it  was.     What  it  should  be, 
More  than  his  father's  death,  that  thus  hath  put  him 
So  much  from  the  understanding  of  himself, 
I  cannot  dream  of:  I  entreat  you  both, 

\Enter  Queen  and  Attendants  L.  u.  E, 
That  you  vouchsafe  your  rest  here  in  our  court 
Some  little  time :  so  by  your  companies 


HAMLET.  41 

To  draw  him  on  to  pleasures,  and  to  gather, 
So  much  as  from  occasion  you  may  glean, 
Whether  aught,  to  us  unknown,  afflicts  him  thus, 
That,  opened,  lies  within  our  remedy. 

Queen. 

Good  gentlemen,  he  hath  much  talked  of  you ; 
And  sure  I  am  two  men  there  are  not  living 
To  whom  he  more  adheres.     If  it  will  please  you 
To  show  us  so  much  gentry  and  good  will 
As  to  expend  your  time  with  us  awhile, 
For  the  supply  and  profit  of  our  hope, 
Your  visitation  shall  receive  such  thanks 
As  fits  a  king's  remembrance. 

Ros. 

3oth  your  majesties 

Wight,  by  the  sovereign  power  you  have  of  us, 
Put  your  dread  pleasures  more  into  command 
Than  to  entreaty. 

Gut!. 

But  we  both  obey, 

And  here  give  up  ourselves,  in  the  full  bent, 
To  lay  our  service  freely  at  your  feet, 
To  be  commanded. 

Queen. 

Thanks,  Rosencrantz  and  gentle  Guildenstern. 
We  do  beseech  you  instantly  to  visit 
Our  too  much  changed  son. — Go,  you, 

[  To  the  attendants. 
And  bring  these  gentlemen  where  Hamlet  is. 

[Exeunt  Rosencrantz,  Guildenstern,  and  all  the 
attendants. 

[Enter  Polonius  L.  u.  E. 

King. 
Thou  still  hast  been  the  father  of  good  news. 


42  HAMLET. 

Pol. 

Have  I,  my  lord  ?     Assure  you,  my  good  liege, 

I  hold  my  duty,  as  I  hold  my  soul, 

Both  to  my  God,  and  to  my  gracious  king  ; 

And  I  do  think  (or  else  this  brain  of  mine 

Hunts  not  the  trail  of  policy  so  sure 

As  it  hath  used  to  do)  that  I  have  found 

The  very  cause  of  Hamlet's  lunacy. 

King. 
O,  speak  of  that;  that  do  I  long  to  hear. 

Pol. 

My  liege,  and  madam, —  to  expostulate 

What  majesty  should  be,  what  duty  is, 

Why  day  is  day,  night  night,  and  time  is  time, 

Were  nothing  but  to  waste  night,  day,  and  time. 

Therefore,  since  brevity  is  the  soul  of  wit, 

And  tediousness  the  limbs  and  outward  flourishes, 

I  will  be  brief: — your  noble  son  is  mad: 

Mad  call  I  it ;  for,  to  define  true  madness, 

What  is  't,  but  to  be  nothing  else  but  mad  ? 

But  let  that  go. 

Queen, 

More  matter,  with  less  art. 

Pol. 

Madam,  I  swear  I  use  no  art  at  all. 

That  he  is  mad,  't  is  true :  't  is  true  't  is  pity; 

And  pity  't  is  't  is  true :  a  foolish  figure ; 

But  farewell  it,  for  I  will  use  no  art. 

Mad  let  us  grant  him,  then :  and  now  remains 

That  we  find  out  the  cause  of  this  effect, — 

Or  rather  say,  the  cause  of  this  defect, 

For  this  effect  defective  comes  by  cause : 

Thus  it  remains,  and  the  remainder  thus. 

Perpend. 

I  have  a  daughter, —  have,  while  she  is  mine, — 


HAMLET.  43 

Who,  in  her  duty  and  obedience,  mark, 

Hath  given  me  this  :  now  gather,  and  surmise. 

[Reads, 
To  the  celestial,  and  my  soul's  idol,  the  most  beautified  Ophelia— 

That's  an  ill  phrase,  a  vile  phrase, —  ''beautified"  is  a  vile 
phrase ;  but  you  shall  hear.     Thus  : 

[Reads, 

In  her  excellent  white  bosom,  these,  &c. 

Queen . 
Came  this  from  Hamlet  to  her  ? 

Pol. 
&ood  madam,  stay  awhile;  I  will  be  faithful. 

[Reads. 

Doubt  thou  the  stars  are  fire  ; 

Doubt  that  the  sun  doth  move  ; 
Doubt  truth  to  be  a  liar ; 

But  never  doubt  I  love. 

O,  dear  Ophelia,  I  am  ill  at  these  numbers  ;  I  have  not  art  to  reckon 
:ny  groans  :  but  that  I  love  thee  best,  O,  most  best,  believe  it.     Adieu. 
Thine  evermore,  most  dear  lady,  whilst  this  machine  is  to  him, 

HAMLET. 

This,  in  obedience,  hath  my  daughter  shown  me : 
And  more  above,  hath  his  solicitings, 
As  they  fell  out  by  time,  by  means,  and  place, 
All  given  to  mine  ear. 

King. 

But  how  hath  she 
Received  his  love  ? 

Pol. 
What  do  you  think  of  me  ? 

King. 
As  of  a  man  faithful  and  honourable. 


44 


HAMLET. 


Pol. 

I  would  fain  prove  so.     But  what  might  you  think, 

When  I  had  seen  this  hot  love  on  the  wing 

(As  I  perceived  it,  I  must  tell  you  that, 

Before  my  daughter  told  me), —  what  might  you, 

Or  my  dear  majesty  your  queen  here,  think, 

If  I  had  played  the  desk  or  table-book ; 

Or  given  my  heart  a  winking,  mute  and  dumb ; 

Or  looked  upon  this  love  with  idle  sight ;  — 

What  might  you  think  ?     No,  I  went  round  to  work, 

And  my  young  mistress  thus  I  did  bespeak : 

"  Lord  Hamlet  is  a  prince,  out  of  thy  star ; 

This  must  not  be ;  "  and  then  I  precepts  gave  her, 

That  she  should  lock  herself  from  his  resort, 

Admit  no  messengers,  receive  no  tokens. 

Which  done,  she  took  the  fruits  of  my  advice ; 

And  he,  repulsed  (a  short  tale  to  make), 

Fell  into  a  sadness ;    then  into  a  fast ; 

Thence  to  a  watch  ;   thence  into  a  weakness ; 

Thence  to  a  lightness ;  and,  by  this  declension 

Into  the  madness  wherein  now  he  raves, 

And  all  we  wail  for. 

King. 
Do  you  think  't  is  this  ? 

Queen. 
It  may  be  —  very  likely. 

Pol. 

Hath  there  been  such  a  time  (I  'd  fain  know  that), 
That  I  have  positively  said,  "  'T  is  so," 
When  it  proved  otherwise  ? 

King. 
Not  that  I  know. 

Pol. 

Take  this  from  this,  if  this  be  otherwise  : 

[Pointing  to  his  head  and  shoulder. 


HAMLET.  45 

If  circumstances  lead  me,  I  will  find 

Where  truth  is  hid,  though  it  were  hid  indeed 

Within  the  centre. 

King. 
How  may  we  try  it  further  ? 

Pol. 

You  know,  sometimes  he  walks  for  hours  together 
Here  in  the  lobby. 

Q'*""-  [Goes  up  c. 

So  he  does,  indeed. 

Pol. 

At  such  a  time  I  '11  loose  my  daughter  to  him  : 
Be  you  and  I  behind  an  arras  then; 
Mark  the  encounter  :    if  he  love  her  not, 
And  be  not  from  his  reason  fallen  thereon, 
Let  me  be  no  assistant  for  a  state, 
But  keep  a  farm  and  carters. 

King. 
We  will  try  it. 

Queen. 
But,  look,  where  sadly  the  poor  wretch  comes,  reading. 

Pol. 

Away,  I  do  beseech  you,  both  away: 
I  '11  board  him  presently. 

[.Exeunt  King  and  Queen. 

[Enter  Hamlet,  c.,  reading. 
How  does  my  good  Lord  Hamlet  ? 

Hamlet. 
Well,  God-a-mercy. 

Pol. 
Do  you  know  me,  my  lord  ? 


46  HA.MI.KT. 

Hamlet. 
Excellent  well ;   you  are  a  fishmonger. 

Pol, 
Not  I,  my  lord. 

Hamlet, 
Then  I  would  you  were  so  honest  a  man. 

Pol, 
Honest,  my  lord ! 

Hamlet. 

Ay,  sir ;  to  be  honest,  as  this  world  goes,  is  to  be  one  man 
picked  out  of  ten  thousand. 

Pol, 
That  's  very  true,  my  lord. 

Hamlet, 

For  if  the  sun  breed  maggots  in  a  dead  dog,  being  a  god 
kissing  carrion, — Have  you  a  daughter  ? 

Pol, 
I  have,  my  lord. 

Hamlet, 

Let  her  not  walk  i'  the  sun  :  conception  is  a  blessing ; 
but  not  as  your  daughter  may  conceive:  —  friend,  look 
to  't. 

Pol.  [Astie. 

Still  harping  on  my  daughter  :  — yet  he  knew  me  not  at 
first ;  he  said  I  was  a  fishmonger :  he  is  far  gone,  far 
gone  :  and  truly  in  my  youth  I  suffered  much  extremity 
for  love;  very  near  this.  I  '11  speak  to  him  again. — What 
do  you  read,  my  lord  ? 

Hamlet. 
Words,  words,  words. 


HAMLET.  47 

Pol. 
What  is  the  matter,  my  lord  ? 

Hamlet. 
Between  who  ? 

Pol. 
I  mean,  the  matter  that  you  read,  my  lord. 

Hamlet. 

Slanders,  sir  :  for  the  satirical  rogue  says  here,  that  old 
men  have  grey  beards;  that  their  faces  are  wrinkled; 
their  eyes  purging  thick  amber  and  plum-tree  gum ;  and 
that  they  have  a  plentiful  lack  of  wit,  together  with  most 
weak  hams  :  all  which,  sir,  though  I  most  powerfully  and 
potently  believe,  yet  I  hold  it  not  honesty  to  have  it  thus 
set  down ;  for  you  yourself,  sir,  should  be  old  as  I  am,  if, 
like  a  crab,  you  could  go  backward. 

Pol.  {Aside. 

Though  this  be  madness,  yet  there  is  method  in  't. — 
Will  you  walk  out  of  the  air,  my  lord  ? 

Hamlet. 
Into  my  grave  ? 

Pol. 

Indeed,  that  is  out  o'  the  air. —  [Aside.]  How  pregnant 
sometimes  his  replies  are !  a  happiness  that  often  madness 
hits  on,  which  reason  and  sanity  could  not  so  prosperously 
be  delivered  of.  I  will  leave  him,  and  suddenly  contrive 
the  means  of  meeting  between  him  and  my  daughter. — 
My  honourable  lord,  I  will  most  humbly  take  my  leave 
of  you. 

Hamlet. 

You  cannot,  sir,  take  from  me  anything  that  I  will  more 
willingly  part  withal, —  except  my  life,  except  my  life, 
except  my  life. 


^g  HAMLET. 

Pol. 

Fare  you  well,  my  lord. 

{Exit  Polonius  L. 
Hamlet. 

These  tedious  old  fools ! 

[As  Polonius  retires,  he  meets,  outside,  Rosencrantz 
and  Guildenstern. 

Pol. 
You  go  to  seek  the  Lord  Hamlet ;  there  he  is. ") 

Ros.  [To  Pol.  \  Within. 

God  save  you,  sir  !  3 

\Enter  Rosencrantz  and  Gitildenstern  L. 

Guil. 
Mine  honoured  lord  ! 

Ros. 
My  most  dear  lord  ! 

Hamlet. 

My  excellent  good  friends  !  How  dost  thou,  Guilden- 
stern  ?  Ah,  Rosencrantz  !  Good  lads,  how  do  ye  both  ? 
What  news  ? 

Ros. 

None,  my  lord,  but  that  the  world 's  grown  honest. 
Hamlet. 

Then  is  doomsday  near :  but  your  news  is  not  true. 
In  the  beaten  way  of  friendship,  what  make  you  at 
Elsinore  ? 

Ros. 

To  visit  you,  my  lord ;  no  other  occasion. 
Hamlet. 

Beggar  that  I  am,  I  am  even  poor  in  thanks;  but  I 
thank  you.  Were  you  not  sent  for?  Is  it  your  own 
inclining  ?  Is  it  a  free  visitation  ?  Come,  deal  justly 
with  me :  come,  come  ;  nay,  speak. 


HAMLET.  49 

Gidl. 
What  should  we  say,  my  lord  ? 

Hamlet. 

Why,  anything — but  to  the  purpose.  You  were  sent 
for :  and  there  is  a  kind  of  confession  in  your  looks,  which 
your  modesties  have  not  craft  enough  to  colour :  I  know 
the  good  kiug  and  queen  have  sent  for  you. 

Ros. 
To  what  end,  /ny  lord  ? 

Hamlet. 

That  you  must  teach  me.  But  let  me  conjure  you,  by  the 
rights  of  our  fellowship,  by  the  consonancy  of  our  youth, 
by  the  obligation  of  our  ever-preserved  love,  and  by  what 
more  dear  a  better  proposer  could  charge  you  withal,  be 
even  and  direct  with  me,  whether  you  were  sent  for,  or  no  ? 

Ros.         [Aside  to  Guildenstern. 

What  say  you  ? 

Hamlet.  [Aside. 

Nay,  then,  1  have  an  eye  of  you. — If  you  love  me,  hold 
not  off. 

Guil. 
My  lord,  we  were  sent  for. 

Hamlet. 

I  will  tell  you  why;  so  shall  my  anticipation  prevent 
your  discovery,  and  your  secrecy  to  the  king  and  queen 
moult  no  feather.  I  have  of  late  (but  wherefore  I  know 
not)  lost  all  my  mirth,  forgone  all  custom  of  exercises ; 
and,  indeed,  it  goes  so  heavily  with  my  disposition,  that 
this  goodly  frame,  the  earth,  seems  to  me  a  sterile  prom- 
ontory; this  most  excellent  canopy,  the  air,  look  you, 
this  brave  o'erhanging  firmament,  this  majestical  roof 
fretted  with  golden  fire, —  why,  it  appears  no  other  thing 
to  me  than  a  foul  and  pestilent  congregation  of  vapours. 
What  a  piece  of  work  is  a  man !  how  noble  in  reason !  how 
4 


50  HAMLET. 

infinite  in  faculty  !  in  form  and  moving  how  express  and 
admirable  !  in  action  how  like  an  angel  !  in  apprehension 
how  like  a  god  !  the  beauty  of  the  world  !  the  paragon  of 
animals  !  And  yet,  to  me,  what  is  this  quintessence  of 
dust?  man  delights  not  me;  no,  nor  woman  neither, 
though  by  your  smiling  you  seem  to  say  so. 


My  lord,  there  was  no  such  stuff  in  my  thoughts. 

Hamlet. 

Why  did  you  laugh,  then,  when  I  said,  man  delights 
not  me  ? 

Ros. 

To  think,  my  lord,  if  you  delight  not  in  man,  what 
lenten  entertainment  the  players  shall  receive  from  you: 
we  coted  them  on  the  way;  and  hither  are  they  coming, 
to  offer  you  service. 

Hamlet. 

He  that  plays  the  king  shall  be  welcome  :  his  majesty 
shall  have  tribute  of  me.  —  What  players  are  they  ? 

Ros. 

Even  those  you  were  wont  to  take  delight  in,  the  trage- 
dians of  the  city. 

Hamlet. 

How  chances  it  they  travel  ?  their  residence,  both  in 
reputation  and  profit,  was  better  both  ways.  Do  they 
hold  the  same  estimation  they  did  when  I  was  in  the  city  ? 
are  they  so  followed  ? 

Ros. 
No,  indeed,  they  are  not. 

Hamlet. 

It  is  not  strange;  for  my  uncle  is  king  of  Denmark, 
and  those  that  would  make  mows  at  him  while  my  father 
lived,  give  twenty,  forty,  fifty,  a  hundred  ducats  apiece  for 
his  picture  in  little.  There  is  something  in  this  more  than 
natural,  if  philosophy  could  find  it  out. 

[  Trumpet  within, 


HAMLET.  51 

Gllll. 

There  are  the  players. 

Hamlet. 

Gentlemen  [To  Rosencranlz  and  Guildenstcrn\  you  are 
welcome  to  Elsinore.  Your  hands.  You  are  welcome; 
but  my  uncle-father  and  aunt-mother  are  deceived. 

Guil. 
In  what,  my  dear  lord  ? 

Hamlet. 

I  am  but  mad  north-north-west;  when  the  wind  is 
southerly  I  know  a  hawk  from  a  handsaw. 

Pol.  [  Within. 

Well  be  with  you,  gentlemen  ! 

Hamlet. 

Hark  you,  Guildenstern,  that  great  baby  you  see  there 
is  not  yet  out  of  his  swathing-clouts. 

Ros. 

Haply  he  is  the  second  time  come  to  them ;  for  they 
say  an  old  man  is  twice  a  child. 

Hamlet. 

I  will  prophesy  he  comes  to  tell  me  of  the  players; 
mark  it. — You  say  right,  sir;  o'  Monday  morning; 
\  was  so,  indeed.  \Enter  Polonius  L. 

Pol. 

My  lord,  I  have  news  to  tell  you. 

Hamlet. 

My  lord,  I  have  news  to  tell  you.  When  Roscius  was 
an  actor  in  Rome, — 

Pol. 
The  actors  are  come  hither,  my  lord. 


52  HAMLET. 

Hamlet. 

Buz,  buz! 

Pol. 

Upon  mine  honour, — 

Hamlet. 
Then  came  each  actor  on  his  ass, — 

Pol. 

The  best  actors  in  the  world,  either  for  tragedy,  com- 
edy, history,  pastoral,  pastoral-comical,  historical-pastoral, 
tragical-historical,  tragical-comical-historical-pastoral,  scene 
individable,  or  poem  unlimited :  Seneca  cannot  be  too 
heavy,  nor  Plautus  too  light.  For  the  law  of  writ  and  the 
liberty,  these  are  the  only  men. 

Hamlet. 

O  Jephthah,  judge  of  Israel,  what  a  treasure  hadst 
thou! 

PoL 
What  a  treasure  had  he,  my  lord? 

Hamlet. 
Why, 

One  fair  daughter,  and  no  more, 
The  which  he  lovtd  passing  well. 

Pol.  [Aside. 

Still  on  my  daughter. 

Hamlet. 
Am  I  not  in  the  right,  old  Jephthah  ? 

Pol. 

If  you  call  me  Jephthah,  my  lord,  I  have  a  daughter 
that  I  love  passing  well. 

Hamlet. 
Nay,  that  follows  not, 


HAMLET.  53 

Pol. 
What  follows,  then,  my  lord  ? 

Hamlet. 

Why 

As  by  lot,  God  \vot, 

and  then  you  know, 

It  came  to  pass,  as  most  like  it  was, — 

the  first  row  of  the  pious  chanson  will  show  you  more: 
for  look,  my  abridgment  comes. 

\Enter  several  Players  L. 

You  are  welcome,  masters ;  welcome  all.  Old  friend ! 
Thy  face  is  valanced  since  I  saw  thee  last ;  comest  thou 
to  beard  me  in  Denmark  ?  Masters,  you  are  all  welcome. 
We  '11  e'en  to  't  like  French  falconers,  fly  at  anything  we 
see  :  we'll  have  a  speech  straight :  come,  give  us  a  taste  of 
your  quality ;  come,  a  passionate  speech. 

First  Play. 
What  speech,  my  lord  ? 

Hamlet. 

I  heard  thee  speak  me  a  speech  once, — but  it  was  never 
acted ;  or,  if  it  was,  not  above  once ;  for  the  play,  I 
remember,  pleased  not  the  million;  't  was  caviare  to  the 
general  •  but  it  was  an  excellent  play,  well  digested  in  the 
scenes,  set  down  with  as  much  modesty  as  cunning.  One 
speech  in  it  I  chiefly  loved :  't  was  vEneas'  tale  to  Dido ; 
and  thereabout  of  it,  especially,  where  he  speaks  of  Priam's 
slaughter ;  if  it  live  in  your  memory,  begin  at  this  line ;  — 
let  me  see,  let  me  see ;  — 

The  rugged  Pyrrhus,  like  the  Hyrcanian  beast, 

— 't  is  not  so  :  — it  begins  with  Pyrrhus :  — 

The  rugged  Pyrrhus, —  he,  whose  sable  arms 
Black  as  his  purpose,  did  the  night  resemble ; 
Old  grandsire  Priam  seeks. — 


54  HAMLET. 

Pol. 

'Fore  heaven,  my  lord,  well  spoken,  with  good  accent 
and  good  discretion. 

Hamlet. 
So  proceed  you. 

First  Play. 

Anon  he  finds  him 

Striking  too  short  at  Greeks ;  his  antique  sword, 
Rebellious  to  his  arm,  lies  where  it  falls, 
Repugnant  to  command  ;  unequal  matched, 
Pyrrhus  at  Priam  drives:  in  rage  strikes  wide ; 
But  with  the  whiff  and  wind  of  his  fell  sword 
The  unnerved  father  falls.     Then  senseless  Ilium, 
Seeming  to  feel  this  blow,  with  flaming  top 
Stoops  to  his  base  ;  and  with  a  hideous  crash 
Takes  prisoner  Pyrrhus'  ear  ;  for,  lo  !  his  sword, 
Which  was  declining  on  the  milky  head 
Of  reverend  Priam,  seemed  i'  the  air  to  stick  : 
So,  as  a  painted  tyrant,  Pyrrhus  stood  : 
And,  like  a  neutral  to  his  will  and  matter, 
Did  nothing. 

But,  as  we  often  see,  against  some  storm, 
A  silence  in  the  heavens,  the  rack  stand  still, 
The  bold  winds  speechless,  and  the  orb  below 
As  hush  as  death  ;  anon  the  dreadful  thunder 
Doth  rend  the  region  ;  so,  after  Pyrrhus'  pause, 
Aroused  vengeance  sets  him  new  a-work  ; 
And  never  did  the  Cyclops'  hammers  fall 
On  Mars's  armour,  forged  for  proof  eterne, 
With  less  remorse  than  Pyrrhus'  bleeding  sword 
Now  falls  on  Priam. — 

Out,  out,  thou  strumpet,  Fortune  !     All  you  gods, 
In  general  synod,  take  away  her  power; 
Break  all  the  spokes  and  fellies  from  her  wheel, 
And  bowl  the  round  nave  down  the  hill  of  heaven, 
As  low  as  to  the  fiends  ! 

Pol 
This  is  too  long. 

Hamlet. 

It  shall  to  the  barber's,  with  your  beard. — Pr'ythee,  say 
on  : — come  to  Hecuba. 


HAMLET.  55 

first  Play. 
But  who,  O,  who  had  seen  the  inobled  queen — 

Hamlet. 

\  \Vith  momentary  sad pre-occupation :  his  thought  is 
of  his  mother. 

"  The  inobled  queen." 

Pol. 
That 's  good ;  "  inobled  queen  "  is  good. 

First  Play. 

Run  barefoot  up  and  down,  threatening  the  flames 

With  bisson  rheum  ;  a  clout  upon  that  head 

Where  late  the  diadem  stood ;  and  for  a  robe, 

About  her  lank  and  all  o'er-teemed  loins, 

A  blanket,  in  the  alarm  of  fear  caught  up  ;  — 

Who  this  had  seen,  with  tongue  in  venom  steeped, 

'Gainst  Fortune's  state  would  treason  have  pronounced: 

But  if  the  gods  themselves  did  see  her  then 

When  she  saw  Pyrrhus  make  malicious  sport 

In  mincing  with  his  sword  her  husband's  limbs, 

The  instant  burst  of  clamour  that  she  made 

(Unless  things  mortal  move  them  not  at  all), 

Would  have  made  milch  the  burning  eyes  of  heaven, 

And  passion  in  the  gods. 

Pol. 

Look,  whether  he  has  not  turned  his  colour,  and  has 
tears  in 's  eyes. —  Pray  you,  no  more. 

Hamlet. 

'T  is  well ;  I  '11  have  thee  speak  out  the  rest  soon. —  Good 
my  lord,  will  you  see  the  players  well  bestowed  ?  Do  you 
hear,  let  them  be  well  used ;  for  they  are  the  abstracts  and 
brief  chronicles  of  the  time ;  after  your  death  you  were 
better  have  a  bad  epitaph  than  their  ill  report  while  you 
live. 

Pol. 

My  lord,  I  will  use  them  according  to  their  desert. 


c6  HAMLET. 

Hamlet. 

Much  better,  sir ;  use  every  man  after  his  desert,  and  who 
should  'scape  whipping  ?  Use  them  after  your  own 
honour  and  dignity  :  the  less  they  deserve,  the  more  merit 
is  in  your  bounty.  Take  them  in. 

Pol. 

Come,  sirs. 

Hamlet. 

Follow  him,  friends :  we  '11  hear  a  play  to-morrow. 

[ExitPolomus,  with  all  the  players  except  the  first,  L. 

Old  friend. 

[The  First  Player  pauses  in  the  act  of  retiring.     Ham- 
Id  then  addresses  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern. 

My  good  friends,  I  '11  leave  you  till  night.  You  are  wel- 
come to  Elsinore. 

[Exeunt  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern.     Hamlet 

then  speaks  again  to  the  player. 
Can  you  play  the  murder  of  Gonzago  ? 

First  Play. 
Ay,  my  lord. 

Hamlet. 

We  '11  have  it  to-morrow  night.  You  could,  for  a  need, 
study  a  speech  of  some  dozen  or  sixteen  lines,  which  I 
would  set  down  and  insert  in  't,  could  you  not  ? 

First  Play. 
Ay,  my  lord. 

Hamlet. 

Very  well. —  Follow  that  lord ;  and  look  you  mock  him 
not. 

[Exit  First  Player  L. 

Now  I  am  alone. 

O,  what  a  rogue  and  peasant  slave  am  I ! 
Is  it  not  monstrous,  that  this  player  here, 


HAMLET.  57 

But  in  a  fiction,  in  a  dream  of  passion, 

Could  force  his  soul  so  to  his  own  conceit, 

That,  from  her  working,  all  his  visage  wanned ; 

Tears  in  his  eyes,  distraction  in  's  aspect, 

A  broken  voice,  and  his  whole  function  suiting 

With  forms  to  his  conceit  ?  and  all  for  nothing ! 

For  Hecuba ! 

What  's  Hecuba  to  him,  or  he  to  Hecuba, 

That  he  should  weep  for  her  ?     What  would  he  do, 

Had  he  the  motive  and  the  cue  for  passion 

That  I  have  ?     He  would  drown  the  stage  with  tears, 

And  cleave  the  general  ear  with  horrid  speech ; 

Make  mad  the  guilty,  and  appal  the  free, 

Confound  the  ignorant ;  and  amaze,  indeed, 

The  very  faculties  of  eyes  and  ears. 

Yet  I, 

A  dull  and  muddy-mettled  rascal,  peak, 

Like  John-a-dreams,  unpregnant  of  my  cause, 

And  can  say  nothing ;  no,  not  for  a  king, 

Upon  whose  property  and  most  dear  life 

A  damned  defeat  was  made.     Am  I  a  coward  ? 

Who  calls  me  villain  ? 

Gives  me  the  lie  i'  the  throat, 

As  deep  as  to  the  lungs  ?  who  does  me  this  ? 

Why,  I  should  take  it :  for  it  cannot  be 

But  I  am  pigeon-livered,  and  lack  gall 

To  make  oppression  bitter;  or,  ere  this, 

I  should  have  fatted  all  the  region  kites 

With  this  slave's  offal :  —  bloody,  bawdy  villain  ! 

Remorseless,  treacherous,  lecherous,  kindless  villain ! 

Why,  what  an  ass  am  I !     This  is  most  brave, 

That  I,  the  son  of  a  dear  father  murdered, 

Prompted  to  my  revenge  by  heaven  and  hell, 

Must,  like  a  bawd,  unpack  my  heart  with  words, 

And  fall  a-cursing,  like  a  very  drab, 

A  scullion  ! 

Fie  upon  it!  foh  !  —  About,  my  brain  !     I  have  heard 

That  guilty  creatures,  sitting  at  a  play, 

Have  by  the  very  cunning  of  the  scene 

Been  struck  so  to  the  soul,  that  presently 


eg  HAMLET. 

They  have  proclaimed  their  malefactions; 

For  murder,  though  it  have  110  tongue,  will  speak 

With  most  miraculous  organ.     I  '11  have  these  players 

Play  something  like  the  murder  of  my  father 

Before  mine  uncle  :  I  '11  observe  his  looks ; 

I  '11  tent  him  to  the  quick  :  if  he  but  blench, 

I  know  my  course.     The  spirit  that  I  have  seen 

Maybe  the  devil:  and  the  devil  hath  power 

To  assume  a  pleasing  shape ;  yea,  and  perhaps 

Out  of  my  weakness  and  my  melancholy, 

As  he  is  very  potent  with  such  spirits, 

Abuses  me  to  damn  me :  I  '11  have  grounds 

More  relative  than  this  : — the  play  's  the  thing 

Wherein  I  '11  catch  the  conscience  of  the  king. 

[Exit  Hamlet 

CURTAIN. 


THE  SAME  AS  IN  ACT  SECOND.     THE  KING 
AND  QUEEN  SEATED  AT  TABLE  c.,  AND 
Jtret.         POLONIUS,  OPHELIA,  ROSENCRANTZ,  AND 

GUILDENSTERN,     STANDING     NEAR,     ARE 
DISCOVERED. 

King. 

And  can  you,  by  no  drift  of  circumstance, 
Get  from  him  why  he  puts  on  this  confusion, 
Grating  so  harshly  all  his  days  of  quiet 
With  turbulent  and  dangerous  lunacy  ? 

fas. 

He  does  confess  he  feels  himself  distracted ; 
But  from  what  cause  he  will  by  no  means  speak. 

Guil. 

Nor  do  we  find  him  forward  to  be  sounded ; 
But,  with  a  crafty  madness,  keeps  aloof, 
When  we  would  bring  him  on  to  some  confession 
Of  his  true  state. 

Queen. 

Did  you  assay  him 
To  any  pastime  ? 

jfos. 

Madam,  it  so  fell  out,  that  certain  players 

We  o'er-raught  on  the  way:  of  these  we  told  him; 

And  there  did  seem  in  him  a  kind  of  joy 

To  hear  of  it :  they  are  about  the  court ; 

And,  as  I  think,  they  have  already  order 

This  night  to  play  before  him. 


60  HAMLET. 

PoL 

'T  is  most  true  : 

And  he  beseeched  me  to  entreat  your  majesties 
To  hear  and  see  the  matter. 

King. 

With  all  my  heart ;  and  it  doth  much  content  me 
To  hear  him  so  inclined. — 
Good  gentlemen,  give  him  a  further  edge, 
And  drive  his  purpose  on  to  these  delights. 

Ros. 
We  shall,  my  lord. 

[Exeunt  Rosencrantz  and  Gidldcnsicni  K. 

King. 

Sweet  Gertrude,  leave  us  too ; 

For  we  have  closely  sent  for  Hamlet  hither, 

That  he,  as  't  were  by  accident,  may  here 

Affront  Ophelia : 

Her  father  and  myself, — lawful  espials, — 

Will  so  bestow  ourselves,  that,  seeing,  unseen, 

We  may  of  their  encounter  frankly  judge; 

And  gather  by  him,  as  he  is  behaved, 

If 't  be  the  affliction  of  his  love  or  no 

That  thus  he  suffers  for. 

{.King  retires 
Queen. 

I  shall  obey  you :  — 
And  for  your  part,  Ophelia,  I  do  wish 
That  your  good  beauties  be  the  happy  cause 
Of  Hamlet's  wildness:  so  shall  I  hope  your  virtues 
Will  bring  him  to  his  wonted  \vay  again, 
To  both  your  honours. 

Oph. 
Madam,  I  wish  it  may. 

[Exit  Queen  L. 


HAMLET.  6  r 

Pol. 

Ophelia,  w^lk  you  here. — 

Gracious,  so  please  you,         \  n  ^  R. 

We  will  bestow  ourselves. —  f 

Read  on  this  book  ;       [  To  Ophelia, — giving  prayer-book. 

That  show  of  such  an  exercise  may  colour 

Your  loneliness. —  We  are  oft  to  blame  in  this, — 

'Tis  too  much  proved, —  that,  with  devotion's  visage 

And  pious  action,  we  do  sugar  o'er 

The  devil  himself. 

King.  [Aside. 

O,  'tis  too  true! 

How  smart  a  lash  that  speech  doth  give  my  conscience ! 
The  harlot's  cheek,  beautied  with  plastering  art, 
Is  not  more  ugly  to  the  thing  that  helps  it, 
Than  is  my  deed  to  my  most  painted  word : 
O,  heavy  burden! 

Pol. 

I  hear  him  coming :  let's  withdraw,  my  lord. 

[Exeunt  King  and  Polonhis  c.,   and  Ophelia, 
slowly,  R. 

[Enter  Hamlet. 
Hamlet. 

To  be,  or  not  to  be, — that  is  the  question  :  — 

Whether  't  is  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suffer 

The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune, 

Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles, 

And  by  opposing  end  them  ? —  to  die, —  to  sleep, — 

No  more ;  and  by  a  sleep  to  say  we  end 

The  heart-ache,  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks 

That  flesh  is  heir  to  — 't  is  a  consummation 

Devoutly  to  be  wished.     To  die, — to  sleep. — 

To  sleep !  perchance  to  dream  :  —  ay,  there  's  the  rub, 

For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may  come, 

When  we  have  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil, 

Must  give  us  pause ;  there  's  the  respect 

That  makes  calamity  of  so  long  life ; 

For  who  would  bear  the  whips  and  scorns  of  time, 


62  HAMLET. 

The  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud  man's  contumely, 

The  pangs  of  despised  love,  the  law's  delay, 

The  insolence  of  office,  and  the  spurns 

That  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes, 

When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make 

With  a  bare  bodkin  ?  who  would  fardels  bear, 

To  grunt  and  sweat  under  a  weary  life, 

But  that  the  dread  of  something  after  death, — 

The  undiscovered  country,  from  whose  bourn 

No  traveller  returns, —  puzzles  the  will, 

And  makes  us  rather  bear  those  ills  we  have 

Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of? 

Thus  conscience  does  make  cowards  of  us  all ; 

And  thus  the  native  hue  of  resolution 

Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought ; 

And  enterprises  of  great  pith  and  moment, 

With  this  regard,  their  currents  turn  awry, 

And  lose  the  name  of  action. —  Soft  you  now  ! 

[Re-enter  Ophelia,  reading. 
The  fair  Ophelia. —  Nymph,  in  thy  orisons 
Be  all  my  sins  remembered. 

Oph.  {Coldly. 

Good  my  lord, 
How  does  your  honour  for  this  many  a  day  ? 

Hamlet.  [Going. 

I  humbly  thank  you ;  well,  well,  well. 
Oph. 

My  lord,  I  have  remembrances  of  yours, 
That  I  have  longed  long  to  re-deliver; 
I  pray  you,  now  receive  them. 

[Hamlet  here  catches  a  glimpse  of  the  King  and 
Polonius,  in  their  hiding-place  at  back  of  the 
scene. 

Hamlet. 
No,  not  I ; 
\  never  gave  you  aught. 


IIAMLi.T.  63 

Of/i. 

My  honoured  lord,  you  know  right  well  you  did; 
And,  with  them,  words  of  so  sweet  breath  composed 
As  made  the  things  more  rich :  their  perfume  lost, 
Take  these  again ;  for  to  the  noble  mind 
Rich  gifts  wax  poor  when  givers  prove  unkind 
There,  my  lord. 

Hamlet. 

Ha,  ha !  are  you  honest  ? 

Oph. 
My  lord  ? 

Hamlet. 
Are  you  fair  ? 

Oph. 
What  means  your  lordship  ? 

Hamlet. 

That  if  you  be  honest  and  fair,  your  honesty  should 
admit  no  discourse  to  your  beauty. 

Oph. 

Could  beauty,  my  lord,  have  better  commerce  than  with 
honesty  ? 

Hamlet. 

Ay,  truly  ;  for  the  power  of  beauty  will  sooner  transform 
honesty  from  what  it  is  to  a  bawd  than  the  force  of  honesty 
can  translate  beauty  into  his  likeness :  this  was  sometime 
a  paradox,  but  now  the  time  gives  it  proof.  I  did  love 
you  once. 

Oph. 

Indeed,  my  lord,  you  made  me  believe  so. 

Hamlet. 

You  should  not  have  believed  me;  for  virtue  cannot  so 
inoculate  our  old  stock,  but  we  shall  relish  of  it :  I  loved 
you  not. 


64  HAMLET. 

Oph. 
I  was  the  more  deceived. 

Hamlet. 

Get  thee  to  a  nunnery :  why  wouldst  thou  be  a  breeder 
of  sinners?  I  am  myself  indifferent  honest;  but  yet  I 
could  accuse  me  of  such  things,  that  it  were  better  my 
mother  had  not  borne  me :  I  am  very  proud,  revengeful, 
ambitious ;  with  more  offences  at  ray  beck  than  I  have 
thoughts  to  put  them  in,  imagination  to  give  them  shape, 
or  time  to  act  them  in. 

What  should  such  fellows  as  I  do  crawling  between 
heaven  and  earth?  We  are  arrant  knaves,  all;  believe 
none  of  us.  Go  thy  ways  to  a  nunnery.  Where  's  your 
father  ? 

Oph.  {Hesitating. 

At  home,  my  lord. 

Hamlet. 

Let  the  doors  be  shut  upon  him,  that  he  may  play  the 
fool  nowhere  but  in  's  own  house.  Farewell. 

Oph. 
O,  help  him,  you  sweet  heavens ! 

Hamlet. 

If  thou  dost  marry,  I  '11  give  thee  this  plague  for  thy 
dowry, — be  thou  as  chaste  as  ice,  as  pure  as  snow,  thou 
shalt  not  escape  calumny.  Get  thee  to  a  nunnery,  go  : 
farewell.  Or,  if  thou  wilt  needs  marry,  marry  a  fool;  for 
wise  men  know  well  enough  what  monsters  you  make  of 
them.  To  a  nunnery,  go ;  and  quickly  too.  Farewell. 

Oph. 
O,  heavenly  powers,  restore  him ! 


HAMLET.  65 

Hamlet. 

I  have  heard  of  your  paintings  too,  well  enough ;  God. 
hath  given  you  one  face,  and  you  make  yourselves 
another  :  you  jig,  you  amble,  and  you  lisp,  and  nick-name 
God's  creatures,  and  make  your  wantonness  your  igno- 
rance. Go  to,  I  '11  no  more  on  \ ;  it  hath  made  me  mad. 
I  say,  we  will  have  no  more  marriages :  those  that  are 
married  already,  all  but  one,  shall  live ;  the  rest  shall  keep 
as  they  are.  To  a  nunnery,  go.  [Exit. 

Oph. 

O,  what  a  noble  mind  is  here  o'erthrown  ! 

The  courtier's,  soldier's,  scholar's,  eye,  tongue,  sword : 

The  expectancy  and  rose  of  the  fair  state, 

The  glass  of  fashion  and  the  mould  of  form, 

The  observed  of  all  observers, —  quite,  quite  down! 

And  I,  of  ladies  most  deject  and  wretched, 

That  sucked  the  honey  of  his  music  vows, 

Now  see  that  noble  and  most  sovereign  reason, 

Like  sweet  bells  jangled,  out  of  tune  and  harsh  ; 

Tha-t  unmatched  form  and  feature  of  blown  youth 

Blasted  with  ecstasy  :   O,  woe  is  me. 

To  have  seen  what  I  have  seen,  see  what  I  see  ! 

[Exit  Ophelia. 
[Re-enter  King  and  Polonius. 

Xing. 

Love  !  his  affections  do  not  that  way  tend ; 

Norwhat  he  spake,  though  it  lacked  form  a  little, 

Was  not  like  madness.     There  's  something  in  his  soul, 

O'er  which  his  melancholy  sits  on  brood ; 

And,  I  do  doubt,  the  hatch  and  the  disclose 

Will  be  some  danger  :    which  for  to  prevent, 

I  have  in  quick  determination 

Thus  set  it  down  : — he  shall  with  speed  to  England, 

For  the  demand  of  our  neglected  tribute  : 

Haply,  the  seas,  and  countries  different, 

With  variable  objects,  shall  expel 

This  something-settled  matter  in  his  heart; 

Whereon  his  brain  still  beating,  puts  him  thus 

From  fashion  of  himself.     What  think  you  on  't  ? 


66  HAMLET. 

Pol. 

It  shall  do  well ;   but  yet  do  I  believe 

The  origin  and  commencement  of  his  grief 

Sprung  from  neglected  love. 

My  lord,  do  as  you  please ; 

But,  if  you  hold  it  fit,  after  the  play, 

Let  his  queen  mother  all  alone  entreat  him 

To  show  his  grief:    let  her  be  round  with  him ; 

And  I  '11  be  placed,  so  please  you,  in  the  ear 

Of  all  their  conference.     If  she  find  him  not, 

To  England  send  him ;    or  confine  him  where 

Your  wisdom  best  shall  think. 

King. 

It  shall  be  so : 
Madness  in  great  ones  must  not  unwatched  go. 

[Exeunt  c 

^>ctne  ^cconlJ. — A  HALL  IN  THE  CASTLE  [FIRST  GROOVES]. 

[N.  B. — During  this  scene,  set  the  Dais  with  chairs 
R,  Platform  L,  chair  and  stool  c. 

[Enter  Hamlet  and  first  Player. 

Hamlet. 

Speak  the  speech,  I  pray  you,  as  I  pronounced  it  to 
you,  trippingly  on  the  tongue  :  but  if  you  mouth  it,  as 
many  of  our  players  do,  I  had  as  lief  the  to\vn-crier  spoke 
my  lines.  Nor  do  not  saw  the  air  too  much  with  your 
hand,  thus ;  but  use  all  gently :  for  in  the  very  torrent, 
tempest,  and,  as  I  may  say,  the  whirlwind  of  passion,  you 
must  acquire  and  beget  a  temperance  that  may  give  it 
smoothness.  O,  it  offends  me  to  the  soul  to  hear  a  robust- 
ious, periwig-pated  fellow  tear  a  passion  to  tatters,  to 
very  rags,  to  split  the  ears  of  the  groundlings;  \\ho,  for 
the  most  part,  are  capable  of  nothing  but  inexplicable 
dumb-shows  and  noise:  I  would  have  such  a  fellow- 
whipped  for  o'erdoing  Termagant:  it  out-herods  Herod: 
pray  you,  avoid  it. 


HAMLET.  67 

First  Player. 
I  warrant  your  honour. 

Hamlet. 

Be  not  too  tame  neither,  but  let  your  own  discretion  be 
your  tutor :  suit  the  action  to  the  word,  the  word  to  the 
action ;  with  this  special  observance,  that  you  o'erstep  not 
the  modesty  of  nature  :  for  anything  so  overdone  is  from 
the  purpose  of  playing,  whose  end,  both  at  the  first  and 
now,  was  and  is,  to  hold,  as  't  were,  the  mirror  up  to 
nature ;  to  show,  virtue  her  own  feature,  scorn  her  own 
image,  and  the  very  age  and  body  of  the  time  his  form 
and  pressure.  Now,  this  overdone,  or  come  tardy  off, 
though  it  make  the  unskilful  laugh,  cannot  but  make  the 
judicious  grieve ;  the  censure  of  the  which  one  must,  in 
your  allowance,  o'erweigh  a  whole  theatre  of  others.  O, 
there  be  players  that  I  have  seen  play, — and  heard  others 
praise,  and  that  highly, — not  to  speak  it  profanely,  that, 
neither  having  the  accent  of  Christians,  nor  the  gait  of 
Christian,  pagan,  nor  man,  have  so  strutted  and  bellowed, 
that  I  have  thought  some  of  nature's  journeymen  had 
made  them,  and  not  made  them  well,  they  imitated 
humanity  so  abominably. 

First  Player. 
I  hope  we  have  reformed  that  indifferently  with  us,  sir. 

Hamlet. 

O,  reform  it  altogether.  And  let  those  that  play  your 
clowns  speak  no  more  than  is  set  down  for  them  :  for  there 
be  of  them  that  will  themselves  laugh,  to  set  on  some 
(juantity  of  barren  spectators  to  laugh  top ;  though,  in  the 
meantime,  some  necessary  question  of  the  play  be  then  to 
be  considered :  that's  villainous,  and  shows  a  most  pitiful 
ambition  in  the  fool  that  uses  it.  Go,  make  you  ready. 

[Exit  Player. 

Horatio !  \Enter  Horatio. 

Horatio. 

Here,  sweet  lord,  at  your  service. 


6g  IIAMLKT. 

Hamlet. 

Horatio,  thou  art  e'en  as  just  a  man 
As  e'er  my  conversation  coped  withal. 

Horatio. 

O,  my  dear  lord, — 

Hamlet. 

Nay,  do  not  think  I  flatter; 

For  what  advancement  may  I  hope  from  thee, 

That  no  revenue  hast,  but  thy  good  spirits, 

To  feed  and  clothe  thee  ?  Why  should  the  poor  be  flattered  ? 

No,  let  the  candied  tongue  lick  absurd  pomp ; 

And  crook  the  pregnant  hinges  of  the  knee 

Where  thrift  may  follow  fawning.     Dost  thou  hear  ? 

Since  my  dear  soul  was  mistress  of  her  choice, 

And  could  of  men  distinguish,  her  election 

Hath  sealed  thee  for  herself:  for  thou  hast  been 

As  one,  in  suffering  all,  that  suffers  nothing ; 

A  man  that  fortune's  buffets  and  rewards 

Hast  ta'en  with  equal  thanks  :  and  blessed  are  those 

Whose  blood  and  judgment  are  so  well  co-mingled, 

That  they  are  not  a  pipe  for  fortune's  finger 

To  sound  what  stop  she  please.     Give  me  that  man 

That  is  not  passion's  slave,  and  I  will  wear  him 

In  my  heart's  core,  ay,  in  my  heart  of  heart, 

As  I  do  thee.  —  Something  too  much  of  this. 

There  is  a  play  to-night  before  the  king ; 

One  scene  of  it  comes  near  the  circumstance 

Which  I  have  told  thee  of  my  father's  death : 

I  pr'ythee,  when  thou  seest  that  act  a-foot, 

Even  with  the  very  comment  of  thy  soul, 

Observe  mine  uncle  :  if  his  occulted  guilt 

Do  not  itself  unkennel  in  one  speech, 

It  is  a  damned  ghost  that  we  have  seen ; 

And  my  imaginations  are  as  foul 

As  Vulcan's  stithy.     Give  him  heedful  note  : 

For  I  mine  eyes  will  rivet  to  his  face ; 

And,  after,  we  will  both  our  judgments  join 

In  censure  of  his  seeming. 


HAMLET.  69 

Horatio. 

Well,  my  lord.  {March,  pp. 

Hamlet. 

They  are  coming  to  the  play.     Get  you  a  place. 
I  must  be  idle.  {Exeunt.     Scene  changes. 


Ibcene  CbirtJ- — SAME  AS  SCENE  FIRST. 

{Guards,  lords,  and  ladies  discovered.  Danish 
march.  Enter  King,  Queen,  Polonius,  Horatio, 
Ophelia,  Rosencrantz,  Guildenstern,  and  Hamlet 

King.  {Ascends  throne  R. 

How  fares  our  cousin  Hamlet  ? 
Hamlet. 

Excellent,  i'  faith  ;  of  the  chameleon's  dish  :  I  eat  the  air, 
promise-crammed :  you  cannot  feed  capons  so. 

King. 

I  have  nothing  with  this  answer,  Hamlet ;  these  words 
are  not  mine. 

Hamlet. 

No,  nor   mine   now.      {To  Polonius.}      My  lord,  you 
played  once  in  the  university,  you  say? 

Pol. 
That  did  I,  my  lord ;  and  was  accounted  a  good  actor. 

Hamlet. 
And  what  did  you  enact  ? 

Pol. 

I   did   enact  Julius  Caesar :   I  was  killed  i'  the  Capitol- 
Brutus  killed  me. 


7o 


HAMLET. 


Hamlet. 

It  was  a  brute  part  of  him  [Aside]  to  kill  so  capital  a 
calf  there.  —  Be  the  players  ready  ? 


Ay,  my  lord  ;  they  stay  upon  your  patience. 

Queen. 
Come  hither,  my  dear  Hamlet,  sit  by  me. 

Hamlet. 
No,  good  mother,  here  's  metal  more  attractive. 

Pol.  {To  the  Kins. 

O,  ho  !  do  you  mark  that  ? 

Hamlet. 

Lady,  shall  I  lie  in  your  lap  ? 

{Lying  down  at  Ophelia's  feet. 

Oph. 
You  are  merry,  my  lord. 

Hamlet. 

O,  your  only  jig-maker.  What  should  a  man  do  but 
be  merry  ?  for,  look  you,  how  cheerfully  my  mother  looks, 
and  my  father  died  within  these  two  hours. 

Oph. 

Nay,  't  is  quite  two  months,  my  lord. 
Hamlet. 

So  long  ?  Nay,  then,  let  the  devil  wear  black,  for  I  '11 
have  a  suit  of  sables.  Two  months  ago,  and  not  for- 
gotten yet  ?  Then  there  's  hope  a  great  man's  memory 
may  outlive  his  life  half  a  year  :  but,  by  'r  lady,  he  must 
build  churches,  then. 

Oph. 

What  means  the  play,  my  lord  ? 


HAMLET.  »f  i 

Hamlet. 
Miching  mallecho  ;  it  means  mischief. 

Oph. 
But  what  is  the  argument  of  the  play  ? 

[Enter  Second  Actor,  as  Prologue. 
Hamlet. 
We  shall  know  by  this  fellow. 

Second  Actor. 

For  us,  and  for  our  tragedy, 
Here  stooping  to  your  clemency, 
We  beg  your  hearing  patiently. 

Hamlet. 
Is  this  a  prologue  or  the  posy  of  a  ring  ? 

Oph. 

'T  is  brief,  my  lord. 

Hamlet. 
As  woman's  love. 

[This  reference  is  to  the  Queen,  and — mournfully — 
to  the  evanescence  of  all  love. 

[Enter  a  King  and  a  Queen. 

P.  King. 

Full  thirty  times  hath  Phoebus'  car  gone  round 
Neptune's  salt  wash  and  Tellus'  orbed  ground, 
And  thirty  dozen  moons  with  borrowed  sheen 
About  the  world  have  times  twelve  thirties  been, 
Since  love  our  hearts,  and  Hymen  did  our  hands, 
Unite  commutual  in  most  sacred  bands. 

P.  Queen. 

So  many  journeys  may  the  sun  and  moon 
Make  us  again  count  o'er  ere  love  be  done  ! 
But,  woe  is  me,  you  are  so  sick  of  late, 
So  far  from  cheer  and  from  your  former  state, 
That  I  distrust  you.     Yet,  though  I  distrust, 
Discomfort  you,  my  lord,  it  nothing  must : 
For  women's  fear  and  love  hold  quantity ; 


*T  ?  HAMLET. 

In  neither  aught,  or  in  extremity. 

Now,  what  my  love  is   proof  hath  made  you  know  ; 

And  as  my  love  is  sized,  my  fear  is  so  : 

Where  love  is  great,  the  littlest  doubts  are  fear  ; 

Where  little  fears  grow  great,  great  love  grows  there. 

P.  King. 

Faith,  I  must  leave  thee,  love,  and  shortly  too ; 
My  operant  powers  their  functions  leave  to  do : 
And  thou  shalt  live  in  this  fair  world  behind, 
Honored,  beloved  ;  and  haply,  one  as  kind 
For  husband  shalt  thou 

P.  Queen. 

O,  confound  the  rest ! 

Such  love  must  needs  be  treason  in  my  breast : 
In  second  husband  let  me  be  accurst ! 
None  wed  the  second  but  who  killed  the  first. 

Hamlet.  [Aside 

Wormwood,  wormwood. 

P.  King. 

I  do  believe  you  think  what  now  you  speak  ; 

But  what  we  do  determine  oft  we  break. 

Purpose  is  but  the  slave  to  memory ; 

Of  violent  birth,  but  poor  validity  : 

Which  now,  like  fruit  unripe,  sticks  on  the  tree  ; 

But  fall,  unshaken,  when  they  mellow  be. 

Our  wills  and  fates  do  so  contrary  run, 

That  our  devices  still  are  overthrown  ; 

Our  thoughts  are  ours,  their  ends  none  of  our  own  : 

So  think  thou  wilt  no  second  husband  wed  ; 

But  die  thy  thoughts  when  thy  first  lord  is  dead. 

P.  Queen. 

Nor  earth  to  me  give  food,  nor  heaven  light ! 
Sport  and  repose  lock  from  me  day  and  night ! 
To  desperation  turn  my  trust  and  hope  ! 
An  anchor's  cheer  in  prison  be  my  scope  ! 
Each  opposite,  that  blanks  the  face  of  joy, 
Meet  what  I  would  have  well,  and  it  destroy  ! 
Both  here  and  hence,  pursue  me  lasting  strife, 
If  once  a  widow,  ever  I  be  wife ! 

P.  King. 
'T  is  deeply  sworn. 


HAMLET.  73 

Hamlet. 
If  she  should  break  it  now ! 

P.  King. 

Sweet,  leave  me  here  awhile  ; 
My  spirits  grow  dull,  and  fain  I  would  beguile 
The  tedious  day  with  sleep.  [Sleeps. 

I}.  Queen. 

Sleep  rock  thy  brain  ; 
And  never  come  mischance  between  us  twain  !  [Exit. 

Hamlet.  [To  the  Queen. 

Madam,  how  like  you  this  play? 

Queen. 
The  lady  doth  protest  too  much,  methinks. 

Hamlet. 
O,  but  she  '11  keep  her  word. 

King. 

Have  you  heard  the  argument  ?  Is  there  no  offence 
in  't  ? 

Hamlet. 

No,  no,  they  do  but  jest,  poison  in  jest ;  no  offence  i' 
the  world. 

King. 
What  do  you  call  the  play  ? 

Hamlet. 

The  Mouse-trap.  Marry,  how  ?  Tropically.  This  play 
is  the  image  of  a  murder  done  in  Vienna:  Gonzago  is  the 
duke's  name;  his  wife,  Baptista :  you  shall  see  anon;  't  is 
a  knavish  piece  of  work  :  out  what  o'  that?  your  majesty, 
and  we  that  have  free  souls,  it  touches  us  not:  let  the 
galled  jade  wince !  our  withers  are  unwrung. 

[Enter  Second  Actor,  as  Lucianus, 

This  is  one  Lucianus,  nephew  to  the  king. 


74  HAMLET. 

Oph. 
You  are  as  good  as  a  chorus,  my  lord. 

Hamlet. 

I  could  interpret  between  you  and  your  love — [Aside] 
if  I  could  see  the  puppets  dallying.  Begin,  murderer ; 
leave  thy  damnable  faces,  and  begin.  Come  : —  the  croak- 
ing raven  doth  bellow  for  revenge. 

Lucianus. 

Thoughts  black,  hands  apt,  drugs  fit,  and  time  agreeing ; 
Confederate  season,  else  no  creature  seeing; 
Thou  mixture  rank,  of  midnight  weeds  collected, 
With  Hecate's  ban  thrice  blasted,  thrice  infected, 
Thy  natural  magic  and  dire  property, 
On  wholesome  life  usurp  immediately. 

[Pours  the  poison  into  the  sleeper  s  car. 

Hamlet. 

He   poisons   him  i'   the   garden   for   his   estate.      His 
name  's  Gonzago  :  the  story  is  extant,  and  written  in  very 
choice  Italian.     You   shall   see  anon  how  the   murderer 
gets  the  love  of  Gonzago's  wife. 
King. 

Give  o'er  the  play  !     Away  ! 

[General  alarm  and  confusion.  As  the  King  rises, 
the  players  hurriedly  quit  the  platform  ;  Ophelia 
runs  to  Polonius  j  and  the  whole  throng  rushes 
out,  after  the  King  and  Queen,  leaving  Hamlet 
and  Horatio  alone  together. 

Hamlet. 

Why,  let  the  strucken  deer  go  weep, 

The  hart  un galled  play ; 
For  some  must  watch,  while  some  must  sleep  : 

So  runs  the  world  away. 

O,  good  Horatio,  I  '11  take  the  ghost's  word  for  a  thou- 
sand pound.     Didst  perceive  ? 

Horatio. 
Very  well,  my  lord. 


HAMLET.  75 

Hamlet. 
Upon  the  talk  of  the  poisoning, — 

Horatio. 
I  did  very  well  note  him. 

Hamlet. 
Ah,   ha!  —  Come,  some   music!    come,  the   recorders! 

Come,  some  music ! 

\Exit  Horatio  R. 

\Enter  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern  i . 

Guil. 
Good  my  lord,  vouchsafe  me  a  word  with  you. 

Hamlet. 
Sir,  a  whole  history. 

Guil. 
The  king,  sir, — 

Hamlet. 

Ay,  sir,  what  of  him  ? 

Guil. 

Is,  in  his  retirement,  marvellous  distempered. 

Hamlet. 

With  drink,  sir  ? 

Guil. 

No,  my  lord,  with  choler. 

Hamlet. 

Your  wisdom  would  show  itself  more  richer  to  signify 
this  to  his  doctor ;  for,  for  me  to  put  him  to  his  purgation 
might  perhaps  plunge  him  into  more  choler. 

Guil. 

Good  my  lord,  put  your  discourse  into  some  frame,  and 
start  not  so  wildly  from  my  affair. 


76  HAMLET. 

Hamlet. 
I  am  tame,  sir: — pronounce. 

Guil. 

The  queen,  your  mother,  in  most  great  affliction  of  spirit, 
hath  sent  me  to  you. 

Hamlet. 

You  are  welcome. 

Guil. 

Nay,  good  my  lord,  this  courtesy  is  not  of  the  right 
breed.  If  it  shall  please  you  to  make  me  a  wholesome 
answer,  I  will  do  your  mother's  commandment :  if  not, 
your  pardon  and  my  return  shall  be  the  end  of  my  business, 

Hamlet. 
Sir,  I  cannot. 

Guil. 
What,  my  lord  ? 

Hamlet. 

Make  you  a  wholesome  answer ;  my  wit  's  diseased : 
but,  sir,  such  answer  as  I  can  make,  you  shall  command ; 
therefore  no  more,  but  to  the  matter:  my  mother,  you 
say,— 

Ros. 

Then  thus  she  says ;  your  behaviour  hath  struck  her  into 
amazement  and  admiration. 

Hamlet. 

O,  wonderful  son,  that  can  so  astonish  a  mother !  — 
But  is  there  no  sequel  at  the  heels  of  this  mother's  admira- 
tion ?  Impart. 

Ros. 

She  desires  to  speak  with  you  in  her  closet,  ere  you  go 
to  bed. 

Hamlet. 

We  shall  obey,  were  she  ten  times  our  mother.  Have 
you  any  further  trade  with  us  ? 


HAMLET.  ft 

Kos. 
My  lord,  you  once  did  love  me. 

Hamlet. 
So  I  do  still,  by  these  pickers  and  stealers. 

Ros. 

Good  my  lord,  what  is  your  cause  of  distemper  ?  you  do, 
surely,  bar  the  door  upon  your  own  liberty,  if  you  deny 
your  griefs  to  your  friend. 

Hamlet. 
Sir,  I  lack  advancement. 

Ros. 

How  can  that  be,  when  you  have  the  voice  of  the  king 
himself  for  your  succession  in  Denmark  ? 

Hamlet. 

Ay,  sir,  but  "  While  the  grass  grows," — the  proverb  is 
something  musty. 

\Enter  Horatio  with  two  musicians. 

O,  the  recorders  : — let  me  see  one. 

{Hamlet  takes  one  of  the  flutes.     Guildenstern 
passes  to  the  R.  of  Hamlet,  as  if  to  overhear  what 
may  pass  between  him  and  Horatio. 
To  withdraw  with  you. 

[Exeunt  Horatio  and  the  musicians  n. 
Why  do  you  go  about  to  recover  the  wind  of  me,  as  if  you 
would  drive  me  into  a  toil  ? 

Guil. 

O,  my  lord,  if  my  duty  be  too  bold,  my  love  is  too 
unmannerly. 

Hamlet. 

I  do  not  well  understand  that.  Will  you  play  upon  this 
pipe? 

Guil. 
My  lord,  I  cannot. 


78  HAMLET. 

Hamlet. 
I  pray  you. 

Guil 
Believe  me,  I  cannot. 

Hamlet. 
I  do  beseech  you. 

Ros. 
I  know  no  touch  of  it,  my  lord. 

Hamlet. 

'T  is  as  easy  as  lying :  govern  these  ventages  with  your 
fingers  and  thumb,  give  it  breath  with  your  mouth,  and  it 
will  discourse  most  eloquent  music.  Look  you,  these  are 
the  stops. 

Guil. 

But  these  cannot  I  command  to  any  utterance  of  har- 
mony; I  have  not  the  skill. 

Hamlet. 

Why,  look  you  now,  how  unworthy  a  thing  you  make  of 
me !  You  would  play  upon  me ;  you  would  seem  to  know 
my  stops ;  you  would  pluck  out  the  heart  of  my  mystery ; 
you  would  sound  me  from  my  lowest  note  to  the  top  of  my 
compass  :  and  there  is  much  music,  excellent  voice,  in  this 
little  organ ;  yet  cannot  you  make  it  speak.  'Sdeath,  do 
you  think  I  am  easier  to  be  played  on  than  a  pipe  ?  Call 
me  what  instrument  you  will,  though  you  may  fret  me,  you 
cannot  play  upon  me. 

[Enter  Polonius  L. 
Pol. 
My  lord !  my  lord ! 

Hamlet. 
God  bless  you,  sir  i 

Pol. 
My  lord,  the  queen  would  speak  with  you,  and  presently. 

Haintct. 

Do  you  see  yonder  cloud  that 's  almost  in  shape  of  a 
camel  ? 


HAMLET.  79 

Pol. 
By  the  mass,  and  't  is  like  a  camel,  indeed- 

Hamlet. 
Methinks  it  is  like  a  weasel. 

Pol. 
It  is  backed  like  a  weasel. 

Hamlet. 
Or  like  a  whale  ? 

Pol. 
Very  like  a  whale. 

Hamlet. 

Then  will  I  come  to  my  mother  by-and-by. — They  fool 
me  to  the  top  of  my  bent. —  I  will  come  by-and-by. 

Pol. 
I  will  say  so. 

Hamlet. 

By-and-by  is  easily  said,  sir.     [Exit  Polonins[ — Leave 
me,  friends. 

[Exeunt  Rose  nc  ran  tz  and  Guildenstern. 
'T  is  now  the  very  witching  time  of  night, 
When  churchyards  yawn,  and  hell  itself  breathes  out 
Contagion  to  this  world :  now  could  I  drink  hot  blood, 
And  do  such  bitter  business  as  the  day 
Would  quake  to  look  on.     Soft !   now  to  my  mother. — 
O,  heart,  lose  not  thy  nature  ;  let  not  ever 
The  soul  of  Nero  enter  this  firm  bosom  : 
Let  me  be  cruel,  not  unnatural ; 
I  will  speak  daggers  to  her,  but  use  none. 

[Exit  Hamut, 


8o  HAMLET. 

•tm  A 


[Enter,  L.,  -£#/£•,  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern. 

King. 

I  like  him  not  ;  nor  stands  it  safe  with  us 
To  let  his  madness  range.     Therefore  prepare  you  ; 
I  your  commission  will  forthwith  despatch, 
And  he  to  England  shall  along  with  you  : 
Arm  you,  I  pray  you,  to  this  speedy  voyage  ; 
For  we  will  fetters  put  upon  this  fear, 
Which  now  goes  too  free-footed. 

Ros.,  Guil. 
We  will  haste  us. 

[Exeunt,  R.,  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern. 
[Enter  Polonius  L. 
Pol. 

My  lord,  he  's  going  to  his  mother's  closet  : 

Behind  the  arras  I  '11  convey  myself, 

To  hear  the  process  ;  I  '11  warrant  she  '11  tax  him  home  : 

And,  as  you  said,  and  wisely  was  it  said, 

'T  is  meet  that  some  more  audience  than  a  mother, 

Since  nature  makes  them  partial,  should  o'erhear 

The  speech  of  vantage.     Fare  you  well,  my  liege  : 

I  '11  call  upon  you  ere  you  go  to  bed, 

And  tell  you  what  I  know. 

King. 

Thanks,  dear  my  lord. 

[Exit  Polonivs  \  . 

O,  my  offence  is  rank,  it  smells  to  heaven; 
It  hath  the  primal,  eldest  curse  upon  't,  — 
A  brother's  murder  !  —  Pray  can  I  not, 
Though  inclination  be  as  sharp  as  will  : 
My  stronger  guilt  defeats  my  strong  intent; 
And,  like  a  man  to  double  business  bound, 
I  stand  in  pause  where  I  shall  first  begin, 


HAMLET.  8 1 

And  both  neglect.     What  if  this  cursed  hand 

Were  thicker  than  itself  with  brother's  blood, — 

Is  there  not  rain  enough  in  the  sweet  heavens 

To  wash  it  white  as  snow  ?     Whereto  serves  mercy 

But  to  confront  the  visage  of  offence  ? 

And  what's  in  prayer  but  this  twofold  force, — 

To  be  forestalled  ere  we  come  to  fall, 

Or  pardoned  being  down  ?     Then  I  '11  look  up  ; 

My  fault  is  past.     But,  O,  what  form  of  prayer 

Can  serve  my  turn  ?     Forgive  me  my  foul  murder !  — 

That  cannot  be ;  since  I  am  still  possessed 

Of  those  effects  for  which  I  did  the  murder, — 

My  crown,  mine  own  ambition,  and  my  queen. 

May  one  be  pardoned,  and  retain  the  offence  ? 

In  the  corrupted  currents  of  this  world 

Offence's  gilded  hand  may  shove  by  justice ; 

And  oft  't  is  seen  the  wicked  prize  itself 

Buys  out  the  law :  but  't  is  not  so  above ; 

There  is  no  shuffling, — there  the  action  lies 

In  his  true  nature ;  and  we  ourselves  compelled, 

Even  to  the  teeth  and  forehead  of  our  faults, 

To  give  in  evidence.     What  then  ?  what  rests  ? 

Try  what  repentance  can  :  what  can  it  not  ? 

Yet  what  can  it,  when  one  cannot  repent  ? 

O,  wretched  state!     O,  bosom  black  as  death! 

0,  limed  soul,  that,  struggling  to  be  free, 

Art  more  engaged!     Help,  angels  !  make  assay: 
Bow,  stubborn  knees ;  and,  heart,  with  strings  of  steel, 
Be  soft  as  sinews  of  the  new-born  babe ! 
All  may  be  well.  [Retires  and  kneels  at  Shrine  c. 

\The  following  speech  is  sometimes  omitted.\ 

\Enter  JIamlet. 
Hamlet. 

Now  might  I  do  it  pat,  now  he  is  praying ; 
And  now  I  '11  do  't ;  —  and  so  he  goes  to  heaven  — 
And  so  am  I  revenged  ?  —  that  would  be  scanned : 
A  villain  kills  my  father;  and,  for  that, 

1,  his  sole  son,  do  this  same  villain  send 
To  heaven. 


82  HAMLET. 

Why,  this  is  hire  and  salary,  not  revenge. 

He  took  my  father  grossly  full  of  bread ; 

With  all  his  crimes  broad  blown,  as  flush  as  May ; 

And  how  his  audit  stands  who  knows  save  heaven  ? 

But,  in  our  circumstance  and  course  of  thought, 

T  is  heavy  with  him :  and  am  I,  then,  revenged, 

Vo  take  him  in  the  purging  of  his  soul, 

When  he  is  fit  and  seasoned  for  his  passage  ? 

No. 

Up,  sword;  and  know  thou  a  more  horrid  hent : 

When  he  is  drunk,  asleep,  or  in  his  rage; 

At  gaming,  swearing;    or  about  some  act 

That  has  no  relish  of  salvation  in  't;  — 

Then  trip  him,  that  his  heels  may  kick  at  heaven  ; 

And  that  his  soul  may  be  as  damned  and  black 

As  hell,  whereto  it  goes.     My  mother  stays  : 

This  physic  but  prolongs  thy  sickly  days. 

\Exit  Hamlet. 
[  The  King  rises  and  advances. 

King. 

My  words  fly  up,  my  thoughts  remain  below : 
Words  without  thoughts  never  to  heaven  go. 

[Exit  the  King. 


(  THE  QUEEN'S  PRIVATE  APARTMENT  IN 

§S>ttnt  JFtftj).    <      THE  CASTLE.  DIM  LIGHT.  THE  QUFEN, 

(      SEATED,  AND  POLONIUS,  DISCOVERED. 

Pol. 

He  will  come  straight.     Look  you  lay  home  to  him : 
Tell  him  his  pranks  have  been  too  broad  to  bear  with, 
And  that  your  grace  hath  screened  and  stood  between 
Much  heat  and  him.     I  '11  sconce  me  e'en  here. 
Pray  you,  be  round  with  him. 

Hamlet.  [  Within. 

Mother,  mother,  mother ! 


HAMLET.  83 

Queen. 

I  '11  warrant  you; 

Fear  me  not :  — withdraw,  I  hear  him  coming. 

[Po/onius  conceals  himself  behind  the  arras. 

{Enter  Hamlet, 
Hamlet. 
Now,  mother,  what  's  the  matter  ? 

Queen. 
Hamlet,  thou  hast  thy  father  much  offended. 

Hamlet. 
Mother,  you  have  my  father  much  offended. 

Queen. 
Come,  come,  you  answer  with  an  idle  tongue. 

Hamlet. 
Go,  go,  you  question  with  a  wicked  tongue. 

Queen. 
Why,  how  now,  Hamlet ! 

Hamlet. 
What  's  the  matter  now  ? 

Queen. 
Have  you  forgot  me  ? 

Hamlet. 

No,  by  the  rood,  not  so : 

You  are  the  queen,  your  husband's  brother's  wife ; 
And, — would  it  were  not  so!  —  you  are  my  mother. 

Queen. 
Nay,  then,  I  '11  set  those  to  you  that  can  speak. 

Hamlet. 

You  shall  not  budge. 
You  go  not  till  I  set  you  up  a  glass 
Where  you  may  see  the  inmost  part  of  you. 


84  HAMLET. 

Queen. 

What  wilt  thou  do  ?  thou  wilt  not  murder  me  ? — 
Help,  help,  ho ! 

Pol  [  Within. 

What,  ho!  help,  help,  help  ! 

Hamlet.  [Draws  sword. 

How  now !  a  rat  ?     Dead,  for  a  ducat,  dead ! 

[Makes  a  pa  ss  through  the  arras. 

Pol.  [  Within. 

O,  I  am  slain! 

Queen. 
O,  me,  what  hast  thou  done? 

Hamlet. 

Nay,  I  know  not: 
Is  it  the  king  ? 

Queen. 
O,  what  a  rash  and  bloody  deed  is  this ! 

Hamlet. 

A  bloody  deed  ! — almost  as  bad,  good  mother, 
As  kill  a  king,  and  marry  with  his  brother. 

Queen. 
As  kill  a  king ! 

Hamlet. 

Ay,  lady,  't  was  my  word. 

[Lifts  up  the  arras,  and  sees  Polonium 
Thou  wretched,  rash,  intruding  fool,  farewell ! 
I  took  thee  for  thy  better. 

[Queen,  in  great  agitation,  seems  about  to  speak. 
Leave  wringing  of  your  hands  :  peace  !  sit  you  down, 
And  let  me  wring  your  heart :  for  so  I  shall, 
If  it  be  made  of  penetrable  stuff; 
If  damned  custom  have  not  brazed  it  so, 
That  it  is  proof  and  bulwark  against  sense. 


HAMLET.  85 

Queen. 

What  have  I  done,  that  thou  darest  wag  thy  tongue 
In  noise  so  rude  against  me  ? 

Hamlet. 
Such  an  act 

That  blurs  the  grace  and  blush  of  modesty; 
Calls  virtue  hypocrite ;  takes  off  the  rose 
From  the  fair  forehead  of  an  innocent  love, 
And  sets  a  blister  there ;  makes  marriage -vows 
As  false  as  dicers'  oaths :    O,  such  a  deed 
As  from  the  body  of  contraction  plucks 
The  very  soul ;   and  sweet  religion  makes 
A  rhapsody  of  words :  heaven's  face  doth  glow ; 
Yea,  this  solidity  and  compound  mass, 
With  tristful  visage,  as  against  the  doom, 
Is  thought-sick  at  the  act. 

Queen. 
Ah  me,  what  act? 

Hamlet. 

Look  here,  upon  this  picture,  and  on  this, — 

The  counterfeit  presentment  of  two  brothers. 

See  what  a  grace  was  seated  on  this  brow ; 

Hyperion's  curls;  the  front  of  Jove  himself; 

An  eye  like  Mars,  to  threaten  and  command ; 

A  station  like  the  herald  Mercury 

New-lighted  on  a  heaven-kissing  hill ; 

A  combination  and  a  form,  indeed, 

Where  every  god  did  seem  to  set  his  seal, 

To  give  the  world  assurance  of  a  man  : 

This  was  your  husband. —  Look  you  now,  what  follows : 

Here  is  your  husband  ;  like  a  mildewed  ear, 

Blasting  his  wholesome  brother.     Have  you  eyes  ? 

Could  you  on  this  fair  mountain  leave  to  feed, 

And  batten  on  this  moor  ?     Ha !  have  you  eyes  ? 

You  cannot  call  it  love ;  for  at  your  age 

The  hey-day  in  the  blood  is  tame,  it  's  humble, 

And  waits  upon  the  judgment :  and  what  judgment 


86  HAMLET. 

Would  stoop  from  this  to  this  ? 

O,  shame !  where  is  thy  blush  ?     Rebellious  hell, 

If  thou  canst  mutine  in  a  matron's  bones, 

To  flaming  youth  let  virtue  be  as  wax, 

And  melt  in  her  own  fire. 

Queen. 

O  Hamlet,  speak  no  more : 

Thou  turn'st  mine  eyes  into  my  very  soul ; 

And  there  I  see  such  black  and  grained  spots 

As  will  not  leave  their  tinct. 

No  more,  sweet  Hamlet ! 

Hamlet. 

A  murderer  and  a  villain ; 

A  slave,  that  is  not  twentieth  part  the  tithe 

Of  your  precedent  lord ;  a  Vice  of  kings  ; 

A  cutpurse  of  the  empire  and  the  rule, 

That  from  a  shelf  the  precious  diadem  stole 


Queen. 

No  more ! 

Hamlet. 

A  king  of  shreds  and  patches, — 

[Enter  Ghost  R. 

Save  me,  and  hover  o'er  me  with  your  wings, 

You  heavenly  guards !  — What  would  your  gracious  figure  ? 

Queen. 
Alas !  he  's  mad  ! 

Hamlet. 

Do  you  not  come  your  tardy  son  to  chide, 
That,  lapsed  in  time  and  passion,  lets  go  by 
The  important  acting  of  your  dread  command  ? 
O, say! 


HAMLET.  87 

Ghost. 

Do  not  forget:  this  visitation 
Is  but  to  whet  thy  almost  blunted  purpose. 
But,  look,  amazement  on  thy  mother  sits : 
O,  step  between  her  and  her  fighting  soul, — 
Speak  to  her,  Hamlet. 

Hamlet. 

How  is  it  with  you,  lady  ? 

Qifeen. 

Alas  !  how  is  't  with  you, 

That  you  do  bend  your  eye  on  vacancy, 

And  with  the  incorporal  air  do  hold  discourse  ? 

Forth  at  your  eyes  your  spirits  wildly  peep ; 

O,  gentle  son, 

Upon  the  heat  and  flame  of  your  distemper 

Sprinkle  cool  patience.     Whereon  do  you  look  ? 

Hamlet. 

On  him,  on  him  !     Look  you,  how  pale  he  glares ! 

His  form  and  cause  conjoined,  preaching  to  stones, 

Would  make  them  capable. —  Do  not  look  upon  me; 

Lest  with  this  piteous  action  you  convert 

My  stern  effects :  then  what  I  have  to  do 

Will  want  true  colour;  tears  perchance  for  blood. 

Queen. 
To  whom  do  you  speak  this  ? 

Hamlet. 
Do  you  see  nothing  —  there  ? 

Queen. 
Nothing  at  all ;  yet  all  that  is  I  see. 

Ham  Id. 
Nor  did  you  nothing  hear  ? 

Queen. 
No,  nothing  but  ourselves. 


HAMLET. 


awlet, 


Why,  look  you  there !  look,  ho\v  it  steals  away ! 

My  father,  in  his  habit  as  he  lived ! 

Look,  where  he  goes,  even  now,  out  at  the  portal ! 

[Exit  Ghost  L. 

Queen.  [In  extreme  terror. 

This  is  the  very  coinage  of  your  brain  : 
This  bodiless  creation  ecstasy 
Is  very  cunning  in. 

Hamlet. 

Ecstasy ! 

My  pulse,  as  yours,  doth  temperately  keep  time, 
And  makes  as  healthful  music  :  it  is  not  madness 
That  I  have  uttered  :  bring  me  to  the  test, 
And  I  the  m  -tter  will  re- word ;  which  madness 
Would  gambol  from.     Mother,  for  love  of  grace, 
Lay  not  that  flattering  unction  to  your  soul, 
That  not  your  trespass,  but  my  madness  speaks : 
It  will  but  skin  and  film  the  ulcerous  place, 
Whilst  rank  corruption,  mining  all  within, 
Infects  unseen.     Confess  yourself  to  heaven ; 
Repent  what 's  past;  avoid  what  is  to  come; 

Queen. 
O  Hamlet,  thou  hast  cleft  my  heart  in  twain. 

Hamlet. 

O,  throw  away  the  worser  part  of  it, 
And  live  the  purer  with  the  other  half. 
Good  night:  but  go  not  to  my  uncle's  bed ; 
Assume  a  virtue,  if  you  have  it  not. 
Once  more,  good  night : 

[  The  Queen  raises  her  hands  as  if  to  bless  her  son. 
Hamlet  checks  the  motion  and  recoils  from  her. 
And  when  you  are  desirous  to  be  blessed, 


HAMLET.  89 

I  '11  blessing  beg  of  you. —  For  this  same  lord, 

[Pointing  to  Polonius. 
I  do  repent : 

I  will  bestow  him,  and  will  answer  well 
The  death  I  gave  him.     So,  again,  good  night  — 
I  must  be  cruel,  only  to  be  kind  : 
Thus  bad  begins,  and  worse  remains  behind. 

CURTAIN. 


3Uct 

JFirsrt. — A  ROOM  IN  THE  CASTLE. 

\Enter  King. 
King. 

How  dangerous  is  it  that  this  man  goes  loose  ! 

Yet  must  not  we  put  the  strong  law  on  him : 

He  's  loved  of  the  distracted  multitude, 

Who  like  not  in  their  judgment  but  their  eyes; 

And  where  't  is  so,  the  offender's  scourge  is  weighed, 

But  never  the  offence. 

[Enter  Rosencrantz. 
How  now  !  what  hath  befallen  ? 

Ros. 

Where  the  dead  body  is  bestowed,  my  lord, 
We  cannot  get  from  him. 

King. 
But  where  is  he  ? 

Ros. 

Without,  my  lord ;   guarded,  to  know  your  pleasure. 

King. 

Bring  him  before  us. 

Ros. 

Ho,  Guildenstern  !  bring  in  my  lord. 

[Enter  Hamlet,  guarded,  and  Guildenstern. 

King. 
Now,  Hamlet,  where  's  Polonius  ? 

Hamlet. 
At  supper. 


HAMLET.  g  I 

King, 
At  supper !  where  ? 

Hamlet. 

Not  where  he  eats,  but  where  he  is  eaten :  a  certain 
convocation  of  politic  worms  are  e'en  at  him. 

King. 
Where  is  Polonius  ? 

Hamlet. 

In  heaven  :  send  thither  to  see  :  if  your  messenger  find 
him  not  there,  seek  him  i'  the  other  place  yourself.  But, 
indeed,  if  you  find  him  not  within  this  month,  you  shall 
nose  him  as  you  go  up  the  stairs  into  the  lobby. 

King.  [To  Guildenstcrn. 

Go  seek  him  there. 

Hamlet. 

He  will  stay  till  you  come. 

f  Exit  Guildemtern. 
King. 

Hamlet,  this  deed,  for  thine  especial  safety, — 

Which  we  do  tender,  as  we  dearly  grieve 

For  that  which  thou  hast  done, — must  send  thee  hence 

With  fiery  quickness  :  therefore  prepare  thyself; 

The  barque  is  ready,  and  the  wind  at  help, 

The  associates  tend,  and  everything  is  bent 

For  England. 

Hamlet. 
For  England  ! 

King. 
Ay,  Hamlet. 

Hamlet. 
Good. 

King. 
So  is  it,  if  thou  knewest  our  purposes. 


92  HAMLET. 

Hamlet. 

I  see  a  cherub  that  sees  them. —  But,  come ;  for  En- 
gland !  —  Farewell,  dear  mother. 

Xing. 
Thy  loving  father,  Hamlet. 

Hamlet. 

My  mother :  father  and  mother  is  man  and  wife ;  man 
and  wife  is  one  flesh;  and  so,  my  mother. —  Come,  for 
England  ! 

[Exit  Hamlet,  with  guards. 

King. 

Follow  him  at  foot ;    tempt  him  with  speed  aboard ; 
Delay  it  not ;    I  '11  have  him  hence  to-night ; 
Away !  for  everything  is  sealed  and  done 
That  else  leans  on  the  affair :    pray  you,  make  haste. 

[Exit  Rosencrantz. 

And,  England,  if  my  love  thou  holdest  in  prize, 
Thou  mayest  not  coldly  estimate  at  naught 
My  sovereign  process ;    which  imports  at  full, 
By  letters  conjuring  to  that  effect, 
The  present  death  of  Hamlet.     Do  it,  England; 
For  like  the  hectic  in  my  blood  he  rages, 
And  thou  must  cure  me  :    till  I  know  't  is  done, 
Howe'er  my  haps,  my  joys  were  ne'er  begun. 

[Exit  Xing.     Scene  changes. 


£?rr ne  S»ccont. —  A  ROOM  IN  THE  CASTLE. 

[Enter  Queen  and  Marcellus  c. 

Queen. 
I  will  not  speak  with  her. 

Mar. 

She  is  importunate ;  indeed,  distract : 
Her  mood  will  needs  be  pitied. 


HAMLET.  93 

Queen. 
What  would  she  have  ? 

Mar. 

'T  were  good  she  were  spoken  with  ;  for  she  may  strew 
Dangerous  conjectures  in  ill-breeding  minds. 

Queen. 
Let  her  come  in. 

[Exit  Marcellus. 

To  my  sick  soul,  as  sin's  true  nature  is, 
Each  toy  seems  prologue  to  some  great  amiss  : 
So  full  of  artless  jealousy  is  guilt, 
It  spills  itself  in  fearing  to  be  spilt. 

\Enter  Marcellus  with  Ophelia  c. 

Oph. 
Where  is  the  beauteous  majesty  of  Denmark  ? 

Queen. 
How  now,  Ophelia! 

Oph.  [Sings. 

How  should  I  your  true  love  know 

From  another  one  ? 
By  his  cockle  hat  and  staff 

And  his  sandle  shoon. 

Queen. 
Alas  !  sweet  lady,  what  imports  this  song  ? 


Say  you  ?  nay,  pray  you,  mark.  [Sings. 


He  is  dead  and  gone,  lady, 
He  is  dead  and  gone  ; 

At  his  head  a  grass-green  turf, 
At  his  heels  a  stone. 


Queen. 
Nay,  but,  Ophelia,  — 


94  HAMLET. 

Oph. 
Pray  you,  mark. 

[Enter  King  L. 
Queen. 

Alas !  look  here,  my  lord. 

Oph.  [Sings. 

White  his  shroud  as  the  mountain  snow, 

Larded  with  sweet  flowers ; 
Which  bewept  to  the  grave  did  go 

With  true-love  showers. 

King. 
How  do  you,  pretty  lady  ? 

Oph. 

Well,  God  'ild  you !  They  say  the  owl  was  a  baker's 
daughter.  Lord  !  we  know  what  we  are,  but  we  know  not 
what  we  may  be. 

King. 
Conceit  upon  her  father. 

Oph. 

Pray  you,  let 's  have  no  words  of  this ;  but  when  they 
ask  you  what  it  means,  say  you  this :  [Sings. 

To-morrow  is  Saint  Valentine's  day, 

All  in  the  morning  betime, 
And  I  a  maid  at  your  window. 

To  be  your  Valentine. 

King. 
How  long  hath  she  been  thus  ? 

Oph. 

I  hope  all  will  be  well.  We  must  be  patient :  but  I 
cannot  choose  but  weep,  to  think  they  should  lay  him  i' 
the  cold  ground.  My  brother  shall  know  of  it :  and  so  I 
thank  you  for  your  good  counsel.  Come,  my  coach!  — 
Good  night,  ladies ;  good  night,  sweet  ladies  ;  good  night, 
good  night.  [Exit  Ophelia  c. 


HAMLET.  95 

King. 

Follow  her,  close ;  give  her  good  watch,  I  pray  you. 

[Exit  Marcellus. 

O,  this  is  the  poison  of  deep  grief;  it  springs 
All  from  her  father's  death.     O,  Gertrude,  Gertrude, 
When  sorrows  come,  they  come  not  single  spies, 
But  in  battalions.  [A  noise  within. 

Queen. 
Alack,  what  noise  is  this  ? 

King. 

Where  are  my  Switzers  ?     Let  them  guard  the  door. 

[Speaking  off  c. 
[Enter  Marcellus. 
What  is  the  matter  ? 

Mar. 

Save  yourself,  my  lord : 

The  young  Laertes,  in  a  riotous  head, 

O'erbears  your  officers.     The  rabble  call  him  lord ; 

They  cry,  "  Choose  we ;  Laertes  shall  be  king !  " 

Caps,  hands,  and  tongues,  applaud  it  to  the  clouds, 

"  Laertes  shall  be  king,  Laertes  king !  " 

[Exit  Marcellus.      Noise  within.     Enter  Laertes,  armed. 

Laer. 

O,  thou  vile  king, 
Give  me  my  father ! 

Queen. 
Calmly,  good  Laertes. 

Laer. 

That  drop  of  blood  that  's  calm  proclaims  me  bastard; 
Cries  cuckold  to  my  father ;  brands  the  harlot 
Even  here,  between  the  chaste  unsmirched  brows 
Of  my  true  mother. 


96  HAMLET. 

King. 

What  is  the  cause,  Laertes, 

That  thy  rebellion  looks  so  giant-like  ?  — 

Let  him  go,  Gertrude ;  do  not  fear  our  person: 

There  's  such  divinity  doth  hedge  a  king, 

That  treason  can  but  peep  to  what  it  would. — 

Tell  me,  Laertes, 

Why  thou  art  thus  incensed :  —  let  him  go,  Gertrude :  - 

Speak,  man. 

Laer. 
Where  is  my  father  ? 

King. 
Dead. 

Queen. 

But  not  by  him. 

King. 

Let  him  demand  his  fill. 

Laer. 

How  came  he  dead  ?     I  '11  not  be  juggled  with  : 
To  hell,  allegiance !  to  this  point  I  stand, — 
That  both  the  worlds  I  give  to  negligence, 
Let  come  what  comes ;    only  I  '11  be  revenged 
Most  th'roughly  for  my  father. 

King. 

Who  shall  stay  you  ? 

Laer. 

My  will,  not  all  the  world  : 

And  for  my  means,  I  '11  husband  them  so  well, 

They  shall  go  far  with  little. 

King. 

Good  Laertes, 

If  you  desire  to  know  the  certainty 
Of  your  dear  father's  death,  is 't  writ  in  your  revenge, 
That,  sweepstake,  you  will  draw  both  friend  and  foe, 
Winner  and  loser  ? 


HAMLET.  97 

Laer. 

None  but  his  enemies. 

King. 
Will  you  know  them,  then  ? 

Laer, 

To  his  good  friends  thus  wide  I  '11  ope  my  arms ; 
And,  like  the  kind,  life-rendering  pelican, 
Repast  them  with  my  blood. 

King. 

Why,  now  you  speak 
Like  a  good  child  and  a  true  gentleman. 
That  I  am  guiltless  of  your  father's  death, 
And  am  most  sensibly  in  grief  for  it, 
It  shall  as  level  to  your  judgment  'pear 
As  day  does  to  your  eye. 

VOICES   OUTSIDE. 

Let  her  come  in  ! 

Laer. 

How  now  !  what  noise  is  that  ? 

\The  Queen  sits  L.     Re-enter  Ophelia. 
O,  heat,  dry  up  my  brains  !  tears  seven  times  salt, 
Bum  out  the  sense  and  virtue  of  mine  eyes  !  — 
By  Heaven,  thy  madness  shall  be  paid  by  weight, 
Till  our  scale  turn  the  beam.     O,  rose  of  May  ! 
Dear  maid,  kind  sister,  sweet  Ophelia !  — 
O,  heavens  !  is't  possible,  a  young  maid's  wits 
Should  be  as  mortal  as  an  old  man's  life  ? 

Oph.  [Sings. 

They  bore  him  barefaced  on  the  bier; 
And  on  his  grave  rained  many  a  tear, — 

Fare  you  well,  my  dove ! 

Laer. 

Hadst  thou  thy  wits,  and  didst  persuade  revenge, 
It  could  not  move  thus. 
7 


gg  IIAMI.ET. 

Oph. 

You  must  sing,  "  Down  a-down,  an  you  call  him  » 
down-a."    O,  how  the  wheel  becomes  it !     'T  was  the  false 
steward,  that  stole  his  master's  daughter. 

Lacr. 

This  nothing  's  more  than  matter. 
Oph. 

There 's  rosemary,  that 's  for  remembrance ;  pray,  love, 
remember ;  and  there  is  pansies,  that 's  for  thoughts. 

Laer. 

A  document  in  madness, —  thoughts  and  remembrance 
fitted. 

Oph. 

There's  fennel  for  you,  and  columbines:  —  there 's  rue 
for  you;  and  here  's  some  for  me: — we  may  call  it  herb 
of  grace  o'  Sundays: — you  may  wear  your  rue  with  a 
difference. — There's  a  daisy: — I  would  give  you  some 
violets,  but  they  withered  all  when  my  father  died  : — they 
say  he  made  a  good  end, — 

[Sings. 

For  bonny  sweet  Robin  is  all  my  joy. — 

Laer. 

Thought  and  affliction,  passion,  hell  itself, 
She  turns  to  favour  and  to  prettiness. 

Oph.  {Sings. 

And  will  he  not  come  again  ? 
And  will  he  not  come  again  ? 

No,  no,  he  is  dead, 

Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
He  never  will  come  again. 

His  beard  was  white  as  snow, 
All  flaxen  was  his  poll : 

He  is  gone,  he  is  gone, 

And  we  cast  away  moan : 
God  ha'  mercy  on  his  soul ! 

And  of  all  Christian  souls,  I  pray  God. —  God  be  wi'  you, 

{Exit  Ophelia  and  Queen. 


HAMLET.  99 

Laer. 
Do  you  see  this,  O  Heaven  ? 

King. 

Laertes,  I  must  commune  with  your  grief, 

Or  you  deny  me  right.     Go  but  apart, 

Make  choice  of  whom  your  wisest  friends  you  will, 

And  they  shall  hear  and  judge  'twixt  you  and  me. 

If  by  direct  or  by  collateral  hand 

They  find  us  touched,  we  will  our  kingdom  give, 

Our  crown,  our  life,  and  all  that  we  call  ours, 

To  you  in  satisfaction  ;    but  if  not, 

Be  you  content  to  lend  your  patience  to  us, 

And  we  shall  jointly  labour  with  your  soul 

To  give  it  due  content. 

Laer. 

Let  this  be  so ; 

His  means  of  death,  his  obscure  funeral, — 

No  trophy,  sword,  nor  hatchment  o'er  his  bones, 

No  noble  rite  nor  formal  ostentation, — 

Cry  to  be  heard,  as  ,'t  were  from  heaven  to  earth, 

That  I  must  call  't  in  question. 

King. 

So  you  shall; 

And  where  th'  offence  is  let  the  great  axe  fall. 
Hamlet,  who  hath  your  noble  father  slain, 
Pursues  my  life. —  [Enter  Bernardo. 

How  now !  what  news  ?  [  To  Bernardo. 

Ber. 

Letters,  my  lord,  from  Hamlet : 

This  to  your  majesty  ;  this  to  the  queen. 

King. 
From  Hamlet !  who  brought  them  ? 

Ber. 
Sailors,  my  lord,  they  say ;  I  saw  them  not. 


100  HAMLET. 

King. 

Laertes,  you  shall  hear  them. — 
Leave  us. 

[Exit  Bernardo. 

[Reads.]  High  and  might)', — You  shall  know  I  am  set  naked  on  your 
kingdom.  To-morrow  shall  I  beg  leave  to  see  your  kingly  eyes:  when 
I  shall,  first  asking  your  pardon  thereunto,  recount  the  occasion  of  my 
sudden  and  more  strange  return.  HAMLET. 

What  should  this  mean  ?     Are  all  the  rest  come  back  ? 
Or  is  it  some  abuse,  and  no  such  thing  ? 

Laer. 
Know  you  the  hand  ? 

King. 

'T  is  Hamlet's  character :  —  "  Naked,"  — 
And  in  a  postscript  here,  he  says,  "  alone." 
Can  you  advise  me  ? 

Laer. 

I  'm  lost  in  it,  my  lord.     But  let  him  come ; 
It  warms  the  very  sickness  in  my  heart, 
That  I  shall  live  and  tell  him  to  his  teeth, 
"  Thus  diddest  thou." 

King. 

If  it  be  so,  Laertes, — 
Will  you  be  ruled  by  me  ? 

Laer. 

Ay,  my  lord ; 
So  you  will  not  o'errule  me  to  a  peace. 

King. 

To  thine  own  peace.     If  he  be  now  returned, — 
As  checking  at  his  voyage,  and  that  he  means 
No  more  to  undertake  it, —  I  will  work  him 
To  an  exploit,  now  ripe  in  my  device 
Under  the  which  he  shall  not  choose  but  fall: 
And  for  his  death  no  wind  of  blame  shall  breathe; 
But  even  his  mother  shall  uncharge  the  practice, 
And  call  it  accident. 


HAMLET.  IOI 

Laer. 

My  lord,  I  will  be  ruled ; 
The  rather,  if  you  could  devise  it  so, 
That  I  might  be  the  organ. 

King. 

It  falls  right. 

You  have  been  talked  of,  since  your  travel,  much, 
And  that  in  Hamlet's  hearing,  for  a  quality 
Wherein,  they  say,  you  shine. 

Laer. 
What  part  is  that,  my  lord  ? 

King. 

A  very  riband  in  the  cap  of  youth, 

Yet  needful  too ; 

Here,  two  months  since, 

There  came  a  gentleman  of  Normandy, — 

Who  gave  you  such  a  masterly  report, 

For  art  and  exercise  in  your  defence, 

And  for  your  rapier  most  especially, 

That  he  cried  out,  't  would  be  a  sight  indeed, 

If  one  could  match  you. 

Sir,  this  report  of  his 

1  )id  Hamlet  so  envenom  with  his  envy, 

That  he  could  nothing  do  but  wish  and  beg 

Your  sudden  coming  o'er,  to  play  with  you. 

Now,  out  of  this, — 

Laer. 

What  out  of  this,  my  lord  ? 

King. 

Laertes,  was  your  father  dear  to  you  ? 
Or  are  you  like  the  painting  of  a  sorrow, 
A  face  without  a  heart  ? 

Laer. 
Why  ask  you  this  ? 


IO2  HAMLET. 

King. 

Hamlet  comes  back  :  what  would  you  undertake, 
To  show  yourself  your  father's  son  in  deed 
More  than  in  words  ? 

Laer. 

To  cut  his  throat  i'  the  church. 

King. 

No  place,  indeed,  should  murder  sanctuarize ; 
Revenge  should  have  no  bounds.     But,  good  Laertes, 
Will  you  do  this,  keep  close  within  your  chamber. 
Hamlet,  returned,  shall  know  you  are  come  home : 
We  '11  put  on  those  shall  praise  your  excellence, 
And  set  a  double  varnish  on  the  fame 
The  Frenchman  gave  you ;  bring  you,  in  fine,  together, 
And  wager  on  your  heads :  he,  being  remiss, 
Most  generous,  and  free  from  all  contriving, 
Will  not  peruse  the  foils;  so  that,  with  ease, 
Or  with  a  little  shuffling,  you  may  choose 
A  sword  unbated,  and,  in  a  pass  of  practice, 
Requite  him  for  your  father. 

Laer. 

I  will  do  't : 

And,  for  that  purpose,  I  '11  anoint  my  sword. 
I  bought  an  unction  of  a  mountebank, 
So  mortal,  that  but  dip  a  knife  in  it, 
Where  it  draws  blood  no  cataplasm  so  rare, 
Collected  from  all  simples  that  have  virtue 
Under  the  moon,  can  save  the  thing  from  death 
That  is  but  scratched  withal :  I  '11  touch  my  point 
With  this  contagion,  that,  if  I  gall  him  slightly, 
It  may  be  death. 

King. 

Let 's  further  think  of  this ; 
We  "11  make  a  solemn  wager  on  your  cunnings. 
When  in  your  motion  you  are  hot  and  dry 
(As  make  your  bouts  more  violent  to  that  end), 


HAMLET.  103 

And  that  he  calls  for  drink,  I  '11  have  prepared  him 
A  chalice  for  the  nonce ;  whereon  but  sipping, 
If  he  by  chance  escape  your  venomed  stuck, 
Our  purpose  may  hold  there. 

\Entcr  Queen  L. 

Queen. 

One  woe  doth  tread  upon  another's  heel, 

So  fast  they  follow  : — your  sister  's  drowned,  Laertes. 

Laertes. 
Drowned  !     O,  where  ? 

Queen. 

There  is  a  willow  grows  aslant  a  brook, 
That  shows  his  hoar  leaves  in  the  glassy  stream ; 
There  with  fantastic  garlands  did  she  come 
Of  crow-flowers,  nettles,  daisies,  and  long  purples. 
There,  on  the  pendent  boughs  her  coronet  weeds 
Clambering  to  hang,  an  envious  sliver  broke ; 
When  down  her  weedy  trophies  and  herself 
Fell  in  the  weeping  brook. 

Laer. 

I  forbid  my  tears  :  but  yet 

It  is  our  trick  ;  nature  her  custom  holds, 

Let  shame  say  what  it  will. 

Adieu,  my  lord  : 

I  have  a  speech  of  fire,  that  fain  would  blaze, 

But  that  this  folly  drowns  it.  '       [Exit. 

CURTAIN. 


f  iftf). 

=          JFir  t  I  ^  CHURCHYARD.     Two   GRAVE-DIGGERS, 

*  '  (         WITH  SPADES,  ETC.,  DISCOVERED. 

First  G.  D. 

Is  she  to  be  buried  in  Christian  burial  that  wilfully  seeks 
her  own  salvation  ? 

Second  G.  D. 

I  tell  thee  she  is;  and  therefore  make  her  grave  straight: 
the  crowner  hath  sat  on  her,  and  finds  it  Christian  burial. 

First  G.  D. 

How  can  that  be,  unless  she  drowned  herself  in  her  own 
defence  ? 

Second  G.  D. 

Why,  't  is  found  so. 

First  G.  D. 

It  must  be  se  qffendendo ;  it  cannot  be  else.  For  here 
lies  the  point :  if  I  drown  myself  wittingly,  it  argues  an 
act :  and  an  act  hath  three  branches ;  it  is,  to  act,  to  do, 
and  to  perform  :  argal,  she  drowned  herself  wittingly. 

Second  G.  D. 
Nay,  but  hear  you,  goodman  delver, — 

First  G.  D. 

Give  me  leave.  Here  lies  the  water ;  good :  here  stands 
the  man ;  good :  if  the  man  go  to  this  water,  and  drown 
himself,  it  is,  will  he,  nill  he,  he  goes, — mark  you  that;  but 
if  the  water  come  to  him,  and  drown  him,  he  droAvns  not 
himself:  argal,  he  that  is  not  guilty  of  his  own  death 
shortens  not  his  own  life. 


HAMLET.  105 

Second  G.  D. 
But  is  this  law  ? 

First  G.  D. 
Ay,  marry,  is  't ;  crovvner's-quest  law 

Second  G.  D. 

Will  you  ha'  the  truth  on  't  ?  If  this  had  not  been  a 
gentlewoman,  she  should  have  been  buried  out  of  Christian 
burial. 

First  G.  D. 

Why,  there  thou  sayst :  and  the  more  pity  that  great 
folk  should  have  countenance  in  this  world  to  drown  or 
hang  themselves,  more  than  their  even  Christian. —  Come, 
my  spade.  There  is  no  ancient  gentlemen  but  gardeners, 
ditchers,  and  grave-makers :  they  hold  up  Adam's  profession. 

Second  G.  D. 
Was  he  a  gentleman  ? 

First  G.  D. 
He  was  the  first  that  ever  bore  arms. 

Second  G.  D. 
Why,  he  had  none. 

First  G.  D. 

What !  art  a  heathen  ?  How  dost  thou  understand  the 
Scripture  ?  The  Scripture  says,  Adam  digged :  could  he 
dig  without  arms  ?  I  '11  put  another  question  to  thee :  if 
thou  answerest  me  not  to  the  purpose,  confess  thyself — 

Second  G.  D. 
Go  to. 

First  G.  D. 

What  is  he  that  builds  stronger  than  either  the  mason, 
the  shipwright,  or  the  carpenter  ? 

Second  G.  D. 

The  gallows-maker;  for  that  frame  outlives  a  thousand 
tenants. 


106  HAMLET. 

First  G.  D. 

I  like  thy  wit  well,  in  good  faith:  the  gallows  does  well; 
but  how  does  it  well  ?  it  does  well  to  those  that  do  ill : 
now,  thou  dost  ill  to  say  the  gallows  is  built  stronger  than 
the  church  :  argal,  the  gallows  may  do  well  to  thee.  To  't 
again,  come. 

Second  G.  D. 

Who  builds  stronger  than  a  mason,  a  shipwright,  or  a 
carpenter  ? 

First  G.  D. 
Ay,  tell  me  that,  and  unyoke. 

Second  G.  D. 
Marry,  now  I  can  tell. 

First  G.  D. 
To't. 

Second  G.  D. 
Mass,  I  cannot  tell. 

First  G.  D. 

Cudgel  thy  brains  no  more  about  it,  for  your  dull  ass 
will  not  mend  his  pace  with  beating;  and,  when  you  are 
asked  this  question  next,  say,  a  grave-maker ;  —  the  houses 
that  he  makes  last  till  doomsday.  Go,  get  thee  to 
Yaughan ;  fetch  me  a  stoop  of  liquor. 

[Exit  Second  G.  D. 

First  G.  D.     [Digging  and  singing. 

In  youth,  when  I  did  love,  did  love, 

Methought  it  was  very  sweet, 
To  contract,  O,  the  time,  for,  ah  !  my  behove, 

O,  methought  there  was  nothing  meet. 

[Enter  Hamlet  and  Horatio. 

Hamlet. 

Has  this  fellow  no  feeling  of  his  business,  that  he  sings 
at  grave-making  ? 


HAMLET.  107 

Horatio. 
Custom  hath  made  it  in  him  a  property  of  easiness. 

Hamlet. 

'T  is  e'en  so :  the  hand  of  little  employment  hath  the 
daintier  sense. 

First  G.  D.  [Sings. 

But  age,  with  his  stealing  steps, 

Hath  clawed  me  in  his  clutch, 
And  hath  shipped  me  intil  the  land, 

As  if  I  had  never  been  such. 

[  Throws  up  a  skull. 
Hamlet. 

That  skull  had  a  tongue  in  it,  and  could  sing  once  :  how 
the  knave  jowls  it  to  the  ground,  as  if  it  were  Cain's  jaw- 
bone, that  did  the  first  murder !  This  might  be  the  pate 
of  a  politician,  which  this  ass  now  o'er-reaches ;  one  that 
would  circumvent  Heaven,  might  it  not  ? 

Horatio. 

It  might,  my  lord. 

[First  G.  D.  throws  bones  from  the  grave,  one  by 
one,  with  his  hands,  tossing  them. 

Hamlet. 

Did  these  bones  cost  no  more  the  breeding,  but  to  play 
at  loggats  with  them  ?  mine  ache  to  think  on  't. 

First  G.  D.  [Sings  and  digs. 

A  pick-axe  and  a  spade,  a  spade, 

For  and  a  shrouding  sheet : 
O,  a  pit  of  clay  for  to  be  made 

For  such  a  guest  is  meet. 

[  Throws  up  another  skull.  The  attention  of  the 
Grave-Digger  is  particularly  drawn  to  this  skull 
by  the  remnant  of  a  leather  fooVs  cap  which  ad- 
heres to  it,  and  by  which  he  recognizes  the  skull 
as  that  of  Yorick.  He  sets  this  skull  apart  from 
the  other. 


T0g  1IAAILET. 

Hamlet. 

There  's  another :  why  may  not  that  be  the  skull  of  a 
lawyer  ?  Where  be  his  quiddits  now,  his  quillets,  his  cases, 
his  tenures,  and  his  tricks  ?  why  does  he  suffer  this  rude 
knave  now  to  knock  him  about  the  sconce  with  a  dirty 
shovel,  and  will  not  tell  him  of  his  action  of  battery  ?  I 
will  speak  to  this  fellow.  Whose  grave  's  this,  sirrah  ? 

First  G.  D. 
Mine,  sir. —  [Sings. 

O,  a  pit  of  clay  for  to  be  made 
For  such  a  guest  is  meet. 

Hamlet. 
I  think  it  be  thine,  indeed ;  for  thou  liest  in  't. 

First  G.  D. 

You  lie  out  on  't,  sir,  and  therefore  it  is  not  yours  :  for 
my  part,  I  do  not  lie  in  't,  and  yet  it  is  mine. 

Hamlet. 

Thou  dost  lie  in  't,  to  be  in  't,  and  say  it  is  thine :  't  is 
for  the  dead,  not  for  the  quick ;  therefore  thou  liest. 

First  G.  D. 
'T  is  a  quick  lie,  sir ;  't  will  away  again,  from  me  to  you. 

Hamlet. 
What  man  dost  thou  dig  it  for  ? 

First  G.  D. 

For  no  man,  sir. 

Hamlet. 
What  woman,  then  ? 

First  G.  D. 
For  none,  neither. 

Hamlet. 
Who  is  to  be  buried  in  't  ? 


HAMLET.  109 

First  G.  D. 

One  that  was  a  woman,  sir ;  but,  rest  her  soul,  she  's 
dead. 

Hamlet.  [  To  Horatio. 

How  absolute  the  knave  is  !  we  must  speak  by  the  card, 
or  equivocation  will  undo  us.  [T<?  First  G.  D.]  How  long 
hast  thou  been  a  grave-maker  ? 

First  G.  D. 

Of  all  the  days  i'  the  year,  I  came  to  't  that  day  that 
our  last  King  Hamlet  o'ercame  Fortinbras. 

Hamlet. 
How  long  is  that  since  ? 

First  G.  D. 

Cannot  you  tell  that  ?  every  fool  can  tell  that :  it  was 
the  very  day  that  young  Hamlet  was  born, —  he  that  is 
mad  and  sent  into  England. 

Hamlet. 
Ay,  marry,  why  was  he  sent  into  England  ? 

First  G.  D. 

Why,  because  he  was  mad :  he  shall  recover  his  wits 
there ;  or,  if  he  do  not,  it 's  no  great  matter  there. 

Hamlet. 
Why? 

First  G.  D. 

'T  will  not  be  seen  in  him  there ;  there  the  men  are  as 
as  he. 

Hamlet. 
How  came  he  mad  ? 

First  G.  D. 
Very  strangely,  they  say. 

Hamlet. 
How  strangely  ? 


110  HAMLET. 

First  G.  D. 
Faith,  e'en  with  losing  his  wits. 

Hamlet. 

Upon  what  ground  ? 
t  First  G.  D. 

Why,  here  in  Denmark :  I  have  been  sexton  here,  man 
and  boy,  thirty  years. 

Hamlet. 
How  long  will  a  man  lie  i'  the  earth  ere  he  rot  ? 

First  G.  D. 

Faith,  if  he  be  not  rotten  before  he  die,  he  will  last  you 
some  eight  year  or  nine  year :  a  tanner  will  last  you  nine 
year. 

Hamlet. 

Why  he  more  than  another  ? 

First  G.  D. 

Why,  sir,  his  hide  is  so  tanned  with  his  trade,  that  he 
will  keep  out  water  a  great  while ;  and  your  water  is  a  sore 
decayer  of  your  dead  body.  Here's  a  skull  now;  this 
skull  hath  lain  you  i'  the  earth  three  and  twenty  years. 

[Grave-digger  takes  up  the  skull  with  the  leather 
remnant  adhering  to  it. 

Hamlet. 
Whose  was  it  ? 

First  G.  D. 
A  mad  fellow's  it  was :  whose  do  you  think  it  was  ? 

Hamlet. 
Nay,  I  know  not. 

First  G.  D. 

\  pestilence  on  him  for  a  mad  rogue !  'a  poured  a 
flagon  of  Rhenish  on  my  head  once.  This  same  skull, 
sir,  was  Yorick's  skull,  the  king's  jester. 


HAMLET.  Ill 

Hamlet. 
This? 

First  G.  D. 
E'en  that. 

Hamlet. 

{Takes  the  skull. 

Alas!  poor  Yorick!  —  I  knew  him,  Horatio:  a  fellow 
of  infinite  jest,  of  most  excellent  fancy:  he  hath  borne 
me  on  his  back  a  thousand  times  ;  and  now,  how  abhorred 
in  my  imagination  it  is  !  Here  hung  those  lips  that  I  have 
kissed  I  know  not  how  oft.  Where  be  your  gibes  now  ? 
your  gambols  ?  your  songs  ?  your  flashes  of  merriment, 
that  were  wont  to  set  the  table  on  a  roar  ?  Not  one  now, 
to  mock  your  own  grinning  ?  quite  chap-fallen  ?  Now 
get  you  to  my  lady's  chamber,  and  tell  her,  let  her  paint 
an  inch  thick,  to  this  favour  she  must  come;  make  her 
laugh  at  that.  —  Pr'ythee,  Horatio,  tell  me  one  thing. 

Horatio. 
What  's  that,  my  lord  ? 

Hamlet. 

Dost  thou  think  Alexander  looked  o'  this  fashion  i'  the 
earth  ? 

Horatio. 
E'en  so 

Hamlet. 

And  smelt  so  ?  pah  ! 

ives  the  skull  to  the  grave-digger. 


Horatio. 

E'en  so,  my  lord. 

Hamlet. 

To  what  base  uses  we  may  return,  Horatio  !  Why  may 
not  imagination  trace  the  noble  dust  of  Alexander,  till  he 
find  it  stopping  a  bung-hole  ? 

Horatio. 
'T  were  to  consider  too  curiously,  to  consider  so. 


112  HAMLET. 

Hamlet. 

No,  faith,  not  a  jot;  but  to  follow  him  thither  with 
modesty  enough,  and  likelihood  to  lead  it :  as  thus ; 
Alexander  died,  Alexander  was  buried,  Alexander  returneth 
into  dust ;  the  dust  is  earth ;  of  earth  we  make  loam ;  and 
why  of  that  loam,  whereto  he  was  converted,  might  they 
not  stop  a  beer-barrel  ? 

Imperial  Caesar,  dead  and  turned  to  clay, 
Might  stop  a  hole  to  keep  the  wind  away: 
O,  that  that  earth,  which  kept  the  world  in  awe, 
Should  patch  a  wall  to  expel  the  winter's  flaw ! 

[Dead  March  is  heard. 

But  soft !   but  soft !    aside  :  — here  comes  the  king — 
The  queen,  the  courtiers  :    who  is  that  they  follow  ? 
And  with  such  maimed  rites  ?     This  doth  betoken, 
The  corse  they  follow  did  with  desperate  hand 
Fordo  its  own  life  :   't  was  of  some  estate. 
Couch  we  awhile,  and  mark. 

[Retiring  with  Horatio  R. 

[Enter  Priest,  &c.,  in  procession,  with  Corse  of 
Ophelia, — Laertes  and  Mourners  following  ; 
King,  Queen,  their  trains,  &c.  The  Corse  is 
borne  upon  a  bier  by  four  or  six  women,  who 
stand  in  front  of  the  grave  until  the  coffin  has 
been  lowered  by  the  grave-diggers  to  its  place, 
funeral  music  sounds  till  then,  when  it  ceases, 
and  the  dialogue  begins. 

Laer. 
What  ceremony  else  ? 

Hamlet. 

That  is  Laertes, 
A  very  noble  youth  :    mark. 

Latr. 
What  ceremony  else  ? 


HAMLET.  113 

Priest. 

Her  obsequies  have  been  as  far  enlarged 

As  we  have  warranty  :    her  death  was  doubtful ; 

And,  but  that  great  command  o'ersways  the  order, 

She  should  in  ground  unsanctified  have  lodged 

Till  the  last  trumpet;    for  charitable  prayers, 

Shards,  flints,  and  pebbles,  should  be  thrown  on  her  : 

Yet  here  she  is  allowed  her  virgin  Grants, 

Her  maiden  strewments,  and  the  bringing  home 

Of  bell  and  burial. 

Laer. 
Must  there  no  more  be  done  ? 

Priest. 

No  more  be  done  ! 

We  should  profane  the  service  of  the  dead 
To  sing  a  requiem,  and  such  rest  to  her 
As  to  peace-parted  souls. 

Laer. 

O,  from  her  fair  and  unpolluted  flesh 

May  violets  spring!  —  I  tell  thee,  churlish  priest, 

A  ministering  angel  shall  my  sister  be, 

When  them  liest  howling. 

Hamlet. 
What !    the  fair  Ophelia ! 

Queen. 

[  Scattering  flowers. 

Sweets  to  the  sweet :    farewell ! 

I  hoped  thou  shouldst  have  been  my  Hamlet's  wife ; 
I  thought  thy  bride-bed  to  have  decked,  sweet  maid, 
And  not  have  strewed  thy  grave. 

Laer. 

O,  treble  woe 

Fall  ten  times  treble  on  that  cursed  head, 
Whose  wicked  deed  thy  most  ingenious  sense 
Deprived  thee  of!  —  Hold  off  the  earth  awhile, 
'8 


I  14  HAMLET. 

Till  I  have  caught  her  once  more  in  mine  arms  : 

[Leaps  into  the  grave. 

Now  pile  your  dust  upon  the  quick  and  dead, 
Till  of  this  flat  a  mountain  you  have  made, 
To  o'ertop  old  Pelion,  or  the  skyish  head 
Of  blue  Olympus. 

Hamlet. 

What  is  he  whose  grief 

Bears  such  an  emphasis  ?   whose  phrase  of  sorrow 
Conjures  the  wandering  stars,  and  makes  them  stand 
Like  wonder-wounded  hearers  ?     This  is  I, 
Hamlet,  the  Dane. 

\Hamlet  advances. 
Laer. 

[Leaps  out  of  the  grave  and  rushes  upon  Hamlet. 
The  devil  take  thy  soul ! 

{Hamlet  and  Laertes  struggle  together  for  a  moment. 

King. 
Pluck  them  asunder. 

Hamlet. 

Thou  prayest  not  well. 
I  pr'ythee,  take  thy  fingers  from  my  throat ; 
For,  though  I  am  not  splenitive  and  rash, 
Yet  have  I  in  me  something  dangerous, 
Which  let  thy  wiseness  fear  :    hold  off  thy  hand ! 

[The  attendants  part  them. 

Hamlet. 

Why,  I  will  fight  with  him  upon  this  theme 
Until  my  eyelids  will  no  longer  wag. 

Queen. 
O,  my  son,  what  theme  ? 

Hamlet. 

I  loved  Ophelia  :  forty  thousand  brothers 
Could  not,  with  all  their  quantity  of  love, 
Make  up  my  sum. —  What  wilt  thou  do  for  her  ? 


HAMLET.  115 

Queen. 
O,  he  is  mad,  Laertes. 

Hamlet. 

Come  !  show  me  what  thou  'It  do  : 

Woul't  weep  ?  woul't  fight  ?  woul't  fast  ?  woul't  tear  thyself? 

I  '11  do  't. —  Dost  thou  come  here  to  whine  ? 

To  outface  me  with  leaping  in  her  grave  ? 

Be  buried  quick  with  her,  and  so  will  I : 

And  if  thou  prate  of  mountains,  let  them  throw 

Millions  of  acres  on  us,  till  our  ground 

Singeing  his  pate  against  the  burning  zone, 

Make  Ossa  like  a  wart !     Nay,  an  thou  'It  mouth, 

I  '11  rant  as  well  as  thou. 

Queen. 

This  is  mere  madness : 
And  thus  awhile  the  fit  will  work  on  him ; 
Anon,  as  patient  as  the  female  dove, 
When  that  her  golden  couplets  are  disclosed, 
His  silence  will  sit  drooping. 

Hamlet. 
Hear  you,  sir ; 

What  is  the  reason  that  you  use  me  thus  ? 
I  loved  you  ever  :  but  it  is  no  matter ; 
Let  Hercules  himself  do  what  he  may, 
The  cat  will  mew,  and  dog  will  have  his  day. 

[Exit  Hamlet  R. 

King. 

I  pray,  you,  good  Horatio,  wait  upon  him. — 

[Exit  Horatio  R. 
[  To  Laertes.]     Strengthen  your  patience  in  our  last  night's 

speech ; 

We  '11  put  the  matter  to  the  present  push, — 
Good  Gertrude,  set  some  watch  over  your  son. — 
This  grave  shall  have  a  living  monument. 

[Picture.     Dead  March.     Scene  changes. 


Il6  HAMLET. 

S>cene  S>econfc. —  IN  FRONT  OF  THE  CASTLE. 

[Efiter  Hamlet  and  Horatio. 

Hamlet. 

But  I  am  very  sorry,  good  Horatio, 
That  to  Laertes  I  forgot  myself; 
For,  by  the  image  of  my  cause,  I  see 
The  portraiture  of  his. 

Horatio. 

Who  comes  here  ? 

[Etiter  Osric  L. 
Osr. 
Your  lordship  is  right  welcome  back  to  Denmark. 

Hamlet. 

I  humbly  thank  you,  sir. — 
Dost  know  this  water-fly  ?  [Aside  to  He 

Horatio.  [Aside  to  Hamlet. 

No,  my  good  lord. 

Hamlet.  [Aside  to  Horatio. 

Thystate  is  the  more  gracious;  for  'tis  a  vice  to  know  him. 

Osr. 

Sweet  lord,  if  your   lordship   were  at  leisure,  I   should 
impart  a  thing  to  you  from  his  majesty. 

Hamlet. 

I  will  receive  it,  sir,  with  all  diligence  of  spirit.     Put 
your  bonnet  to  his  right  use  ;  't  is  for  the  head. 

Osr. 
I  thank  your  lordship,  't  is  very  hot. 

Hamlet. 
No,  believe  me,  't  is  very  cold ;  the  wind  is  northerly. 


HAMLET.  117 

Osr. 
It  is  indifferent  cold,  my  lord,  indeed. 

Hamlet. 

But  yet,  methinks  it  is  very  sultry  and  hot;  or  my  com 
plexion  — 

Osr. 

Exceedingly,  my  lord ;  it  is  very  sultry, —  as  't  were. —  I 
cannot  tell  how. —  But,  my  lord,  his  majesty  bade  me  sig- 
nify to  you,  that  he  has  laid  a  great  wager  on  your  head  : 
sir,  this  is  the  matter, — 

Hamlet. 

I  beseech  you,  remember — 

\Hamlet  moves  him  to  put  on  his  hat. 

Osr 

Nay,  in  good  faith ;  for  mine  ease,  in  good  faith.  Sir, 
here  is  newly  come  to  court  Laertes ;  believe  me,  an  abso- 
lute gentleman,  full  of  most  excellent  differences,  of  very 
soft  society,  and  great  showing :  indeed,  to  speak  feelingly 
of  him,  he  is  the  card  or  calendar  of  gentry,  for  you  shall 
find  in  him  the  continent  of  what  part  a  gentleman  would 
see. 

Hamlet. 

What  imports  the  nomination  of  this  gentleman  ? 

Osr. 
Of  Laertes  ? 

Hamlet. 
Of  him,  sir. 

Osr. 
You  are  not  ignorant  of  what  excellence  Laertes  is — 

Hamlet. 

I  dare  not  confess  that,  lest  I  should  compare  with  him 
in  excellence. 


Il8  HAMLET. 

Osr. 
I  mean,  sir,  for  his  weapon. 

Hamlet. 
What  is  his  weapon  ? 

Osr. 
Rapier  and  dagger. 

Hamlet. 
That 's  two  of  his  weapons :  but,  well. 

Osr. 

The  king,  sir,  hath  wagered  with  him  six  Barbary  horses : 
against  the  which  he  has  imponed,  as  I  take  it,  six  French 
rapiers  and  poniards,  with  their  assigns,  as  girdle,  hangers, 
and  so  :  three  of  the  carriages,  in  faith,  are  very  dear  to 
fancy,  very  responsive  to  the  hilts,  most  delicate  carriages, 
and  of  very  liberal  conceit. 

Hamlet. 
What  call  you  the  carriages  ? 

Osr. 

The  carriages,  sir,  are  the  hangers. 

Hamlet. 

The  phrase  would  be  more  german  to  the  matter,  if  we 
could  carry  cannon  by  our  sides. 

Osr. 

The  king,  sir,  hath  laid,  that  in  a  dozen  passes  between 
yourself  and  him,  he  shall  not  exceed  you  three  hits:  he 
hath  laid  on  twelve  for  nine ;  and  it  would  come  to  imme- 
diate trial,  if  your  lordship  would  vouchsafe  the  answer  ? 

Hamlet. 

How  if  I  answer  no  ? 

Osr. 

I  mean,  my  lord,  the  opposition  of  your  person  in  trial. 


HAMLET.  119 

Hamlet. 

Sir,  it  is  the  breathing  time  of  day  with  me ;  let  the  foils 
be  brought,  the  gentleman  willing,  and  the  king  hold  his 
purpose,  I  will  win  for  him  if  I  can;  if  not,  I  will  gain 
nothing  but  my  shame  and  the  odd  hits. 

Osr. 
Shall  I  deliver  you  so  ? 

Hamlet. 
To  this  effect,  sir ;  after  what  flourish  your  nature  will. 

Osr. 
I  commend  my  duty  to  your  lordship.  [Exit  Osric. 

Horatio. 
You  will  lose  this  wager,  my  lord. 

Hamlet. 

I  do  not  think  so;  since  he  went  into  France,  I  have 
been  in  continual  practice.  But  thou  wouldst  not  think 
how  ill  all 's  here  about  my  heart :  but  it  is  no  matter. 

Horatio. 
Nay,  good  my  lord, — 

Hamlet. 

It  is  but  foolery ;  but  it  is  such  a  kind  of  gain-giving  as 
would  perhaps  trouble  a  woman. 

Horatio. 

If  your  mind  dislike  anything,  obey  it :  I  will  forestall 
their  repair  hither,  and  say  you  are  not  fit. 

Hamlet. 

Not  a  whit :  we  defy  augury :  there's  a  special  providence 
in  the  fall  of  a  sparrow.  If  it  be  now,  \  is  not  to  come ; 
if  it  be  not  to  come,  it  will  be  now ;  if  it  be  not  now,  yet 
it  will  come :  the  readiness  is  all :  since  no  man,  of  aught 
he  leaves,  knows,  what  is  't  to  leave  betimes  ?  Let  be. 

[Exeunt.     Change. 


120  HAMLET. 

A  HALL  IN  THE  CASTLE.     KING,  QUEEN, 
LAERTES,      BERNARDO,      MARCELLUS, 
S»cenc  Cfjirtl.  •{      LORDS,  OSRIC,  AND  ATTENDANTS,  WITH 
FOILS,  &c.,  ARE  DISCOVERED.    FLOUR- 
ISH OF  TRUMPETS. 

[Hamlet  and  Horatio  enter. 

King. 
Come,  Hamlet,  come,  and  take  this  hand  from  me. 

Hamlet. 

Give  me  your  pardon,  sir;  I  Ve  done  you  wrong; 

But  pardon  it,  as  you  are  a  gentleman. 

Let  my  disclaiming  from  a  purposed  evil 

Free  me  so  far  in  your  most  generous  thoughts, 

That  I  have  shot  mine  arrow  o'er  the  house, 

And  hurt  my  brother. 

Laer. 

I  am  satisfied  in  nature, 

Whose  motive,  in  this  case,  should  stir  me  most 

To  my  revenge : 

I  do  receive  your  offered  love  like  love 

And  will  not  wrong  it. 

Hamlet. 

I  embrace  it  freely ; 

And  will  this  brother's  wager  frankly  play. — 

Give  us  the  foils. 

Laer. 
Come;  one  for  me. 

Hamlet. 

I  '11  be  your  foil,  Laertes ;  in  mine  ignorance 
Your  skill  shall,  like  a  star  i'  the  darkest  night, 
Stick  fiery  off  indeed. 

Laer. 
vou  mock  me,  sir. 


HAMLET.  121 

Hamlet. 
No,  by  this  hand. 

King. 

Give  them  the  foils,  young  Osric. 

[  Osric  gives  a  foil  to  each. 
Cousin  Hamlet, 
You  know  the  wager  ? 

Hamlet. 

Very  well,  my  lord ; 
Your  grace  hath  laid  the  odds  o'  the  weaker  side. 

King. 

I  do  not  fear  it ;  I  have  seen  you  both : 

But  since  he  is  bettered,  we  have  therefore  odds. 

Laer. 
This  is  too  heavy,  let  me  see  another. 

Hamlet. 
This  likes  me  well.     These  foils  have  all  a  length  ? 

Osr. 
Ay,  my  good  lord. 

King. 

If  Hamlet  give  the  first  or  second  hit, 
Or  quit  in  answer  of  the  third  exchange, 

[Laerte s,  unseen  by  the  others,  poisons  his  weapon. 
Let  all  the  battlements  their  ordnance  fire, 
The  king  shall  drink  to  Hamlet's  better  breath; 
And  in  the  cup  a  union  shall  he  throw, 
Richer  than  that  which  four  successive  kings 
In  Denmark's  crown  have  Avorn.     Give  me  the  cup ; 

[Bernardo  gives  cup  to  the  King. 
And  let  the  kettle  to  the  trumpet  speak, 
The  trumpet  to  the  cannoneer  without, 
The  cannons  to  the  heavens,  the  heavens  to  earth. 
"  Now  the  king  drinks  to  Hamlet." — [Flourish  and  cannon. 
[Hamlet  and  Laertes  take  position  to  fence.     Music. 
Come,  begin ;  — 
And  you,  the  judges,  bear  a  wary  eye. 

[They  play. 


122  HAMLET. 

Hamlet. 
One. 

Laer. 

No. 

Hamlet. 

Judgment. 

Osr. 
A  hit,  a  very  palpable  hit. 

Laer. 
Well;  —  again. 

King. 

[Drops  poison  in  the  cup. 

Stay.     Hamlet,  this  pearl  is  thine ; 
Here  's  to  thy  health. 

\Pretends  to  drink.      Trumpets  sound,  and  cannon 

are  shot  off  within. 
Give  him  the  cup. 

Hamlet. 

I  '11  play  this  bout  first ;  set  it  by  awhile. — 

Come.     [They play.} — Another  hit;  what  say  you  ? 

Laer. 
A  touch,  a  touch,  I  do  confess. 

King. 
Our  son  shall  win. 

Queen. 

The  queen  carouses  to  thy  fortune,  Hamlet. 

[Takes  the  cup  and  drinks. 

Hamlet. 
Good  madam ! 

[  While  the  Queen  drinks,  Osric  and  others  approach 
the  King. 

King. 
Gertrude,  do  not  drink.  {Suddenly  observing  Queen. 


HAMLET.  123 

Queen. 
I  have,  my  lord ;  I  pray  you,  pardon  me. 

King.  [Aside. 

It  is  the  poisoned  cup ;  it  is  too  late. 

Laer.  [Aside. 

I  '11  hit  him  now, 
And  yet 't  is  almost  'gainst  my  conscience. 

Hamlet. 

Come,  for  the  third,  Laertes  :  you  but  dally ; 
I  pray  you,  pass  with  your  best  violence ; 
I  am  afeard  you  make  a  wanton  of  me. 

Laer. 

Say  you  so  ?  come  on. 

'[They  play.  Laertes  wounds  Hamlet;  then,  in 
scuffling,  they  change  rapiers,  and  Hamlet 
wounds  Laertes. 

King. 
Part  them ;  they  are  incensed. 

Hamlet. 

Nay,  come  again. 

[The  Queen  moans. 

Osr. 
Look  to  the  queen  there,  ho ! 

Horatio. 
How  is  it,  my  lord  ? 

Osr. 
How  is  it,  Laertes  ? 

Laer. 

Why,  as  a  woodcock  to  mine  own  springe,  Osric ; 
I  am  justly  killed  with  mine  own  treachery. 

Hatni'ft. 
How  does  the  queen  ? 


T24  HAMLET. 

King. 
She  swoons  to  see  them  bleed. 

Queen, 

No,  no,  the  drink,  the  drink, —  O,  my  dear  Hamlet, — 
The  drink,  the  drink ! —  I  am  poisoned. 

[The  King  and  others  assist  the  Queen — who  is 
led  out,  followed  by  her  ladies.  The  King  re- 
turns and  calls  his  lords  around  him  on  the 
throne. 

Hamlet. 

O,  villainy!  —  Ho!  le^the  door  be  locked: 
Treachery !  seek  it  out. 

[Guards  exeunt.     Laertes  falls  into  chair  R. 

Laer. 

It  is  here,  Hamlet :  Hamlet,  thou  art  slain ; 
No  medicine  in  the  world  can  do  thee  good, 
In  thee  there  is  not  half  an  hour  of  life ; 
The- treacherous  instrument  is  in  thy  hand, 
Unbated  and  envenomed ;  the  foul  practice 
Hath  turned  itself  on  me ;  lo,  here  I  lie, 
Never  to  rise  again:  thy  mother  's  poisoned:  — 
I  can  no  more:  —  the  king,  the  king  's  to  blame. 

Hamlet. 

The  point, —  envenomed  too! — 
Then,  venom,  to  thy  work. 

All. 

Treason!  treason! 

[Lords  draw  their  swords  to  defend  the  King. 
Hamlet  rushes  through  the  crowd  and  stabs  him. 

Hamlet. 

Here,  thou  incestuous,  murderous,  damned  Dane, 
Follow  my  mother. 

[  The  King  falls  and  dies. 


HAMLET.  125 

Lacr. 

He  is  justly  served; 

Exchange  forgiveness  with  me,  noble  Hamlet : 
Mine  and  my  father's  death  come  not  on  thee, 
Nor  thine  on  me  ! 

[Laertes  dies. 
Hamlet. 

Heaven  make  thee  free  of  it !     I  follow  thee. 
Horatio,  I  am  dead; 

Thou  liv'st ;  report  me  and  my  cause  aright 
To  the  unsatisfied. 

Horatio. 

Never  believe  it : 

I  am  more  an  antique  Roman  than  a  Dane : 
Here  's  yet  some  liquor  left. 

[Seizes  the  cup.     Hamlet  wrests  it  from  him. 

Hamlet. 

As  thou  'rt  a  man, 

Give  me  the  cup:  let  go;  by  heaven,  I  '11  have  it. — 

O,  good  Horatio,  what  a  wounded  name, 

Things  standing  thus  unknown,  shall  live  behind  me! 

If  thou  didst  ever  hold  me  in  thy  heart, 

Absent  thee  from  felicity  awhile, 

And  in  this  harsh  world  draw  thy  breath  in  pain, 

To  tell  my  story. 

O,  1  die,  Horatio; 

The  potent  poison  quite  o'er-crows  my  spirit. 

The  rest  is  silence. 

[Hamlet  dies, 
Horatio. 

Now  cracks  a  noble  heart: — good  night,  sweet  prince; 
And  flights  of  angels  sing  thee  to  thy  rest !  — 

[March    (of   Fortinbras)  is    heard   at   distance. 
Picture. 

SLOW   CURTAIN. 


HAMLET. 

APPENDIX. 
I. — THE  CHARACTER  OF  HAMLET. 

HAMLET  is  a  poetic  ideal.  He  is  not  an  ancient  Dane,  fair,  blue- 
eyed,  yellow-haired,  stout,  and  lymphatic;  but  he  is  the  sombre, 
dreamy,  mysterious  hero  of  a  melancholy  poem.  The  actor 
who  would  represent  him  aright  must  not  go  behind  the  tragedy  in 
which  he  occurs,  in  quest  of  historic  realities,  but,  dealing  with  an  ideal 
subject,  must  treat  it  in  an  ideal  manner,  as  far  removed  as  possible  from 
the  plane  of  actual  life.  Interest  in  the  Prince  of  Denmark  is  not,  to  a 
very  considerable  extent,  inspired  by  the  circumstances  that  surround 
him,  or  by  his  proceedings:  it  depends  upon  the  quality  of  the  man, — 
the  interior  spirit  and  fragrance  of  his  character, —  and  upon  the  words 
in  which  that  spirit  is  expressed.  There  is  an  element  in  Hamlet,  no 
less  elusive  than  beautiful,  which  lifts  the  mind  to  a  sublime  height,  fills 
the  heart  with  a  nameless  grief,  and  haunts  the  soul  as  with  remembered 
music  of  a  gentle  voice  that  will  speak  no  more.  It  might  be  called 
sorrowful  grandeur,  sad  majesty,  ineffable  mournfulness,  grief-stricken 
isolation,  or  patient  spiritual  anguish.  Whatever  called,  the  name 
might  prove  inapt  and  inadequate ;  but  the  magical  force  of  this  attri- 
bute can  never  fail  to  be  felt.  Hamlet  fascinates  by  his  personality;  and 
the  actor  can  only  succeed  in  presenting  him,  who  possesses,  in  himself, 
this  peculiar  quality  of  fascination.  It  is  something  that  cannot  be 
drawn  from  the  library,  nor  poured  from  the  flagon,  nor  bought  in  the 
shops.  Hamlet  is,  essentially,  spiritual.  It  is  not  enough,  therefore,  in 
the  presentation  of  this  part,  that  the  actor  should  make  it  known  that 
Hamlet's  soul  is  haunted  by  supernatural  powers  :  he  must  also  make  it 
felt  that  Hamlet  possesses  a  soul  such  as  it  is  possible  for  supernatural 
powers  to  haunt.  At  the  beginning,  and  before  his  mind  has  been 
shocked  and  unsettled  by  the  awful  apparition  of  his  father's  spirit  in 
arms,  he  is  found  deeply  prone  to  sombre  thought  upon  the  nothingness 
of  this  world  and  the  solemn  mystery  of  the  world  beyond  the  grave. 
This  mental  drift  does  not  flow  from  his  student  fancy,  but  is  the  spon- 
taneous, passionate  tendency  of  his  nature  :  for  in  the  first  self-commun- 


128  APPENDIX. 

ing  monologue  that  he  utters  he  is  revealed  as  having  brooded  on  the 
expediency  of  suicide  ;  and  not  long  afterward  he  avows  belief  that 
the  powers  of  hell  have  great  control  over  spirits,  like  his  own, 
which  are  melancholy  and  weak.  The  soul  of  Hamlet,  then,  must  be 
felt  to  have  been — in  its  original  essence  and  condition,  before  grief, 
shame  and  terror  arrived  to  burden  and  distract  it — intensely  sensitive 
to  the  miseries  that  are  in  this  world ;  to  the  fact  that  all  the  pomp  of 
human  life  is  nothing  but  an  evanescent  pageant,  passing,  on  a  thin  tis- 
sue, over  what  Shakespeare  himself  has  so  finely  called  "the  blind  cave 
of  eternal  night  "  ;  and  to  all  the  strange,  vague  influences,  sometimes 
beautiful,  sometimes  terrible,  that  seem  wafted  out  of  the  great  unknown. 
Out  of  this  high  sensibility,  coupled  with  the  conditions  into  which  he  is 
born  and  with  the  miserable  state  into  which  he  is  forced  by  the  crimes 
of  his  mother  and  his  uncle  and  the  visitation  of  his  father's  ghost,  the 
whole  man  may  be  deduced.  He  is  a  compound  of  spiritualized  intel- 
lect, masculine  strength,  feminine  softness,  over-imaginative  reason, 
lassitude  of  thought,  autumnal  gloom,  lovable  temperament,  piteous, 
tear-freighted  humor,  princely  grace  of  condition,  brooding  melancholy, 
the  philosophic  mind,  and  the  deep  heart.  His  nature  is  everything  noble. 
He  is  placed  upon  a  pinnacle  of  earthly  greatness.  He  is  afflicted  with 
a  grief  that  breaks  his  heart,  and  thereupon  with  a  shock  that  disorders 
his  mind.  He  is  charged  with  a  solemn  and  dreadful  duty,  to  the  ful- 
filment of  which  his  will  is  wholly  inadequate.  He  sees  so  widely  and 
understands  so  dubiously  the  nature  of  things,  in  the  universe  of  God, 
that  his  sense  of  moral  responsibility  is  overwhelmed  and  his  power  of 
action  completely  arrested.  He  thinks  greatly,  but  to  no  purpose.  He 
wanders  darkly  in  the  borderland  betwixt  reason  and  madness — haunted 
now  with  sweet  strains  and  majestic  images  of  heaven,  and  now  with 
terrific,  uncertain  shapes  of  hell.  And  so  he  drifts  aimlessly,  on  a  sea 
of  misery,  into  the  oblivion  of  death.  This  man  is  a  type  of  a  class  of 
beings  upon  the  earth  to  whom  life  is  a  dream,  all  its  surroundings  too 
vast  and  awful  for  endurance,  all  its  facts  sad,  action  impossible  or  fitful 
and  fruitless,  and  of  whom  it  never  can  be  said  that  they  are  happy  till 
the  grass  is  growing  upon  their  graves.  W.  W. 

II. — FACTS  ABOUT  HAMLET. 

The  story  upon  which  the  tragedy  of  "Hamlet"  is  founded  is, 
probably,  fabulous.  It  first  occurs  in  the  History  of  Denmark  ["  His- 
torica  Danica"],  written  by  Saxo  Grammaticus,  and  first  printed  in  1514. 
It  was  retold  about  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century  [1570],  under  the 
name  of  the  "  Hystorie  of  Hamblet,"  in  Belleforest's  "  Histoire  Tra- 


APPENDIX.  129 

giques,"  a  work  that  was  translated  from  French  into  English,  and 
became  popular  in  England.  A  perfect  copy  of  the  translation  exists  in 
the  library  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge ;  is  dated  1608 ;  and  is  the 
earliest  edition  known  to  be  extant.  Shakespeare  is  supposed  to  have 
known  this  work;  but,  as  his  tragedy  of  "  Hamlet"  was  first  published 
in  1603,  he  must  have  known  it  either  in  the  original  French,  or  in  an 
earlier  translation.  It  is  possible  that  he  did  not  know  it  at  all,  but  that 
he  based  his  "Hamlet  "on  an  old  play  on  the  same  subject.  Such  a 
play — though,  perhaps,  he  was  himself  the  author  of  it — was  in  existence. 
It  is  referred  to,  in  1589,  by  Thomas  Nash,  and,  in  1596,  by  Lodge  — 
authors  and  actors  contemporary  with  Shakespeare.  The  theory  has 
been  broached  that  Shakespeare  wrote  "  Hamlet "  early  in  his  life,  and, 
many  years  afterward,  revised  and  perfected  it.  No  one  contends, 
though,  that  he  invented  the  subject.  His  colossal  genius  was  shown  in 
his  wonderful  treatment  of  it.  "  Hamlet  "  was  five  times  —  if  not  oftener 
—  published  in  quarto,  at  London,  during  its  author's  life.  It  had  been 
acted,  and  by  the  company  to  which  Shakespeare  belonged,  prior  to  the 
summer  of  1602.  There  is  a  legend — dubious  but  grateful  —  that  the 
poet  himself  was  the  representative  of  the  Ghost.  The  first  quarto 
[1603]  is  supposed  to  have  been  surreptitiously  published,  by  an 
unscrupulous  printer  of  the  period,  and  it  is  not  considered  authentic. 
Much  stress,  in  that  version,  is  laid  upon  Hamlet's  madness;  the  Queen 
is  made  distinctly  to  disclaim  complicity  with  Claudius  in  her  first 
husband's  murder;  direction  is  given  that,  in  the  Closet  Scene, — Act 
Third, — the  Ghost  shall  enter  "  in  his  nightgown ; "  and  Polonius  figures 
as  Corambis,  while  his  servant,  Reynaldo,  is  called  Montano.  The 
second  quarto,  published  in  1604,  exhibits  great  improvements  on  the 
first.  The  subsequent  quartos  are  dated  1605, 1607, — conjecturally, —  and 
1611.  Then  came  the  folio  of  1623,  in  which  "Hamlet"  occupies  31 
pages.  The  text  of  the  tragedy  has  been  much  discussed ;  but  a  careful 
comparison  of  the  old  quartos  with  the  first  folio,  made  by  many 
scholars,  has  finally  settled  it  in  a  satisfactory  manner.  The  substance 
of  the  tragedy,  as  Shakespeare  wrote  it,  seems  to  have  been  obtained  by 
taking  the  folio  of  1623  as  a  basis,  and  amplifying  it  by  large  additions 
from  the  quarto  of  1604.  The  reprint  of  "Hamlet"  in  the  former  is 
thought  to  have  been  made  from  a  manuscript  of  the  piece,  that 
Heminge  and  Condell  obtained  from  Shakespeare's  theatre.  The 
quarto  version  may  have  been  authorized  by  Shakespeare  himself. 
The  poet's  final  draught  of  the  tragedy  was,  doubtless,  made  in  1601. 
He  had,  four  years  previously,  established  his  family  in  New  Place,  at 
Stratford-on-Avon  ;  but  it  does  not  appear  that  he  had  relinquished  the 

9 


130  APPENDIX. 

residence  he  is  known  to  have  occupied  in  1596,  at  Southwark.  "  Ham- 
let," therefore,  probably,  was  written  in  the  old  Borough.  The  first 
representative  of  Hamlet  is  declared  to  have  been  Richard  Burbage ; 
chiefly  on  the  authority  of  a  manuscript  Elegy  upon  that  actor  (1619), 
which  mentions  that  he  was  "fat  and  scant  of  breath"  in  the  fencing 
scene.  The  honor  of  having  been  the  original  Hamlet  is  also  ascribed 
[Tallis's  Dramatic  Magazine,  June,  1851]  to  John  Lowin;  and  it  is, 
furthermore,  said  that  to  him  Shakespeare  himself  gave  many  sug- 
gestions :  but  this  is  doubtful.  W.  W. 

III. — THE  ORIGINAL  STORY  OF  HAMLET. 

"Fengon,  having  secretly  assembled  certain  men,  and  perceiving 
himself  strong  enough  to  execute  his  enterprise, —  Horvendile,  his 
brother,  being  at  a  banquet  with  his  friends, —  suddenly  set  upon  him, 
where  he  slew  him  as  traitorously  as  cunningly  he  purged  himself  of 
so  detestable  a  murder  to  his  subjects  ;  for  that  before  he  had  any 
violent  or  bloody  hands,  or  once  committed  parricide  upon  his  brother, 
he  had  incestuously  abused  his  wife,  whose  honour  he  ought  to  have 
sought  and  procured,  as  traitorously  he  pursued  and  effected  his 
destruction.  *********** 

"  Boldened  and  encouraged  by  his  impunity,  Fengon  ventured  to 
couple  himself  in  marriage  with  her  *  *  *  and  the  unfortunate  and 
wicked  woman,  that  had  received  the  honour  to  be  the  wife  of  one  of  the 
valiantest  and  wisest  princes  of  the  North,  imbased  herself  in  such  vile 
sort  as  to  falsify  her  faith  unto  him,  and,  which  is  worse,  to  marry  him 
that  had  been  the  tyrannous  murderer  of  her  lawful  husband.  *  *  * 

"  Geruth  having  so  much  forgotten  herself,  the  prince  Hamblet, 
perceiving  himself  to  be  in  danger  of  his  life,  as  being  abandoned  of  his 
own  mother,  to  beguile  the  tyrant  into  his  subtleties,  counterfeited  the 
madman  with  such  craft  and  subtle  practices  that  he  made  show  as  if  he 
had  utterly  lost  his  wits ;  and  under  that  vail  he  covered  his  pretense, 
and  defended  his  life  from  the  treasons  and  practices  of  the  tyrant,  his 
uncle.  For,  every  day  being  in  the  queen's  palace  (who  as  then  was 
more  careful  to  please  her  paramour,  than  ready  to  revenge  the  cruel 
death  of  her  husband,  or  to  restore  her  son  to  his  inheritance),  he  rent 
and  tore  his  clothes,  wallowing  and  lying  in  the  dirt  and  mire,  running 
through  the  streets  like  a  man  distraught,  not  speaking  one  word  but 
such  as  seemed  to  proceed  of  madness  and  mere  frenzy ;  all  his  actions 
and  gestures  being  no  other  than  the  right  countenances  of  a  man 
wholly  deprived  of  all  reason  and  understanding,  in  such  sort,  that  as 


APPENDIX.  131 

then  he  seemed  fit  for  nothing  but  to  make  sport  to  the  pages  and 
ruffling  courtiers  that  attended  in  the  court  of  his  uncle  and  father-in- 
law.  But  many  times  he  did  divers  actions  of  great  and  deep  consider- 
ation, and  often  made  such  and  so  fit  answers,  that  a  wise  man  would 
soon  have  judged  from  what  spirit  so  fine  an  invention  might 
proceed.  *  *  * 

"  Hamblet  likewise  had  intelligence  in  what  danger  he  was  like  to 
fall,  if  by  any  means  he  seemed  to  obey,  or  once  like  the  wanton  toys 
and  vicious  provocations  of  the  gentlewoman  sent  to  him  by  his  uncle ; 
which  much  abashed  the  prince,  as  then  wholly  being  in  affection  to  the 
lady ;  but  by  her  he  was  likewise  informed  of  the  treason,  as  being  one 
that  from  her  infancy  loved  and  favored  him,  and  would  have  been 
exceeding  sorrowful  for  his  misfortune.  *  *  *  *  *  * 

"Among  the  friends  of  Fengon  there  was  one  that,  above  all  the  rest, 
doubted  of  Hamblet's  practices  in  counterfeiting  the  madman.  His 
device  to  entrap  Hamblet  in  his  subtleties  was  thus  —  that  King  Fengon 
should  make  as  though  he  were  to  go  some  long  voyage  concerning 
affairs  of  great  importance,  and  that  in  the  meantime  Hamblet  should 
be  shut  up  alone  in  a  chamber  with  his  mother,  wherein  some  other 
should  secretly  be  hidden  behind  the  hangings,  there  to  stand  and  hear 
their  speeches,  and  the  complots  by  them  to  be  taken  concerning  the 
accomplishment  of  the  dissembling  fool's  pretense;  *  *  *  and 
withal  offered  himself  to  be  the  man  that  should  stand  to  hearken  and 
bear  witness  of  Hamblet's  speeches  with  his  mother.  This  invention 
pleased  the  king  exceedingly  well.  *  *  *  *  #  •*  # 

"  Meantime,  the  counselor  entered  secretly  into  the  queen's  chamber, 
and  there  hid  himself  behind  the  arras,  not  long  before  the  queen  and 
Hamblet  came  thither,  who,  being  crafty  and  politic,  as  soon  as  he  was 
within  the  chamber,  doubting  some  treason,  used  his  ordinary  manner 
of  dissimulation,  and  began  to  come  like  a  cock,  beating  with  his  arms 
(in  such  manner  as  cocks  use  to  strike  with  their  wings)  upon  the 
hangings  of  the  chamber;  whereby,  feeling  something  stirring  under 
them,  he  cried,  "A  rat!  a  rat!"  and  presently  drawing  his  sword, 
thrust  it  into  the  hangings,  which  done,  he  pulled  the  counselor,  half 
dead,  out  by  the  heels,  and  made  an  end  of  killing  him.  *  *  *  By 
which  means  having  discovered  the  ambush,  and  given  the  inventor 
thereof  his  just  reward,  he  came  again  to  his  mother,  who  in  the  mean- 
time wept  and  tormented  herself;  and  having  once  again  searched 
every  corner  of  the  chamber,  perceiving  himself  to  be  alone  with  her, 
he  began  in  sober  earnest  and  discreet  manner  to  speak  unto  her, 
saying, 


132  APPENDIX. 

"  '  What  treason  is  this,  O  most  infamous  woman,  *  *  *  who, 
under  the  vail  of  a  dissembling  creature,  covereth  the  most  wicked  and 
detestable  crime  that  man  could  ever  imagine  or  was  committed  ?  Now 
may  I  be  assured  to  trust  you,  that  like  a  vile  wanton  adulteress, 
altogether  impudent  and  given  over  to  her  pleasure,  runs  spreading 
forth  her  arms  to  embrace  the  traitorous  villainous  tyrant  that  murdered 
my  father  ?  *  *  *  *  O,  Queen  Geruth  !  it  is  licentiousness  only 
that  has  made  you  deface  out  of  your  mind  the  memory  of  the  valor 
and  virtues  of  the  good  king,  your  husband  and  my  father.  *  *  * 
Be  not  offended,  I  pray  you,  madam,  if,  transported  with  dolor  and 
grief,  I  speak  so  boldly  unto  you,  and  that  I  respect  you  less  than  duty 
requireth ;  for  you,  having  forgotten  me,  and  wholly  rejected  the 
memory  of  the  deceased  king,  my  father,  must  not  be  ashamed  if  I  also 
surpass  the  bounds  and  limits  of  due  consideration."  *  *  *  * 

"Although  the  Queen  perceived  herself  nearly  touched,  and  that 
Hamblet  moved  her  to  the  quick,  where  she  felt  herself  interested, 
nevertheless  she  forgot  all  disdain  and  wrath,  which  thereby  she  might 
as  then  have  had,  hearing  herself  so  sharply  chidden  and  reproved,  to 
behold  the  gallant  spirit  of  her  son,  and  to  think  what  she  might  hope, 
and  the  easier  expect  of  his  so  great  policy  and  wisdom.  But  on  the  one 
side,  she  durst  not  lift  up  her  eyes  to  behold  him,  remembering  her 
•offense,  and  on  the  other  side,  she  would  gladly  have  embraced  her  son, 
In  regard  of  the  wise  admonitions  by  him  given  unto  her.  *  * 

"After  this,  Fengon  came  to  the  court  again,  and  determined  that 
Hamblet  should  be  sent  into  England.  Now  to  bear  him  company 
were  assigned  two  of  Fengon's  faithful  ministers,  bearing  letters 
engraved  in  wood,  that  contained  Hamblet's  death,  in  such  sort  as  he 
had  advertised  the  King  of  England.  But  the  subtle  Danish  prince, 
while  his  companions  slept,  having  read  the  letters,  and  known  his 
uncle's  great  treason,  with  the  wicked  and  villainous  minds  of  the  two 
courtiers  that  led  him  to  the  slaughter,  erased  out  the  letters  that 
concerned  his  death,  and  instead  thereof  graved  others,  with  commission 
to  the  King  of  England  to  hang  his  two  companions.  *  *  *  * 

"  Hamblet,  while  his  father  lived,  had  been  instructed  in  that  devilish 
art,  whereby  the  wicked  spirit  abuseth  mankind,  and  advertiseth  him  of 
things  past.  It  toucheth  not  the  matter  herein  to  discover  whether  this 
prince,  by  reason  of  his  over-great  melancholy,  had  received  those 
impressions,  divining  that  which  never  any  but  himself  had  before 
declared." — Finally,  Hamblet,  after  a  complete  revenge,  becomes  King 
of  Denmark,  marries  two  wives,  and  dies  in  battle. — See  PATNK 
COLLIER'S  SHAKESPEARE  LIBRARY,  vol.  i. 


APPENDIX.  133 

IV.— THE  MADNESS  OF  HAMLET. 

"  Under  Shakespeare's  treatment  Hamlet's  madness  becomes  some- 
thing altogether  different  from  the  obstinate  premeditation  or  melancholy 
enthusiasm  of  a  young  prince  of  the  Middle  Ages,  placed  in  a  dangerous 
position,  and  engaged  in  a  dark  design :  it  is  a  grave  moral  condition,  a 
great  malady  of  soul,  which,  at  certain  epochs  and  in  certain  states  of 
society  and  of  manners,  frequently  attacks  the  most  highly  gifted  and 
the  noblest  of  our  species,  and  afflicts  them  with  a  disturbance  of  mind 
which  sometimes  borders  very  closely  upon  madness.  The  world  is  full 
of  evil,  and  of  all  kinds  of  evil.  What  sufferings,  crimes,  and  fatal, 
although  innocent  errors  !  What  general  and  private  iniquities,  both 
strikingly  apparent  and  utterly  unknown  !  What  merits,  either  stifled 
or  neglected,  become  lost  to  the  public  and  a  burden  to  their  possessors  ! 
What  falsehood,  and  coldness,  and  levity,  and  ingratitude,  and  forget- 
fulness,  abound  in  the  relations  and  feelings  of  men  !  Life  is  so  short  — 
and  yet  so  agitated  —  sometimes  so  burdensome  and  sometimes  so 
empty  !  The  future  is  so  obscure  !  So  much  darkness  at  the  end  of  so 
many  trials !  In  reference  to  those  who  only  see  this  phase  of  the  world 
and  of  human  destiny,  it  is  easy  to  understand  why  their  mind  becomes 
disturbed,  why  their  heart  fails  them,  and  why  a  misanthropic  melan- 
choly becomes  an  habitual  feeling,  which  plunges  them  by  turns  into 
irritation  or  doubt  —  into  ironical  contempt  or  utter  prostration.  *  *  * 
Read  the  four  great  monologues  in  which  the  Prince  of  Denmark 
abandons  himself  to  the  reflective  expression  of  his  inmost  feelings  ; 
gather  together  from  the  whole  play  the  passages  in  which  he  casually 
gives  them  utterance  ;  seek  out  and  sum  up  that  which  is  manifest  and 
that  which  is  hidden  in  all  that  he  thinks  and  says,  and  you  will  every- 
where recognize  the  presence  of  the  moral  malady  just  described. 
Therein  truly  resides,  much  more  than  in  his  personal  griefs  and  perils, 
the  source  of  Hamlet's  melancholy ;  in  this  consists  his  fixed  idea  and 
his  madness.  *  *  *  In  order  to  render  the  exhibition  of  so  sombre  a 
disease  not  only  endurable  but  attractive,  Shakespeare  has  endowed  the 
sufferer  himself  with  the  gentlest  and  most  alluring  qualities.  He  has 
made  Hamlet  handsome,  popular,  generous,  affectionate,  and  even 
tender."  GuiZOT. 

V.— INCIDENTS  AND  SCHEME  OF  HAMLET. 

"  Hamlet  is  disqualified  for  action  by  his  excess  of  the  reflective  ten- 
dencies, and  by  his  unstable  will,  which  alternates  between  complete 
inactivity  and  fits  of  excited  energy.  Naturally  sensitive,  he  receives  a 


134  APPENDIX. 

painful  shock  from  the  hasty  second  marriage  of  his  mother  ;  already  the 
springs  of  faith  and  joy  in  his  nature  are  embittered;  then  follows  the 
terrible  discovery  of  his  father's  murder,  with  the  injunction  laid  upon 
him  to  revenge  the  crime ;  upon  this,  again,  follow  the  repulses  which 
he  receives  from  Ophelia.  A  deep  melancholy  lays  hold  of  his  spirit, 
and  all  of  life  grows  dark  and  sad  to  his  vision.  Although  hating  his 
father's  murderer,  he  has  little  heart  to  push  on  his  revenge.  He  is 
aware  that  he  is  suspected,  and  surrounded  by  spies.  Partly  to  baffle 
them;  partly  to  create  a  vail  behind  which  to  seclude  his  true  self; 
partly  because  his  whole  moral  nature  is,  indeed,  deeply  disordered,  he 
assumes  the  part  of  one  whose  wits  have  gone  astray.  Except  for  one 
loyal  friend,  he  is  alone  among  enemies  or  supposed  traitors.  Ophelia 
he  regards  as  no  more  loyal  or  honest  to  him  than  his  mother  had  been 
to  her  dead  husband.  The  ascertainment  of  Claudius's  guilt  by  means 
of  the  play  still  leaves  him  incapable  of  the  last  decisive  act  of  vengeance. 
Not  so,  however,  with  the  king,  who,  now  recognizing  his  foe  in  Hamlet, 
does  not  delay  to  despatch  him  to  a  bloody  death  in  England.  But 
there  is  in  Hamlet  a  terrible  power  of  sudden  and  desperate  action. 
From  the  melancholy  which  broods  over  him  after  the  death  of  Ophelia, 
he  rouses  himself  to  the  play  of  swords  with  Laertes,  and  at  the  last, 
with  strength  which  leaps  up  before  its  final  extinction,  he  accomplishes 
the  punishment  of  the  malefactor."  EDWARD  DOVVDEN. 


VI.— THE  KEY-NOTE  OF  HAMLET. 

"  In  Hamlet,  Shakespeare  seems  to  have  wished  to  exemplify  the  moral 
necessity  of  a  due  balance  between  our  attention  to  the  objects  of  our 
senses  and  our  meditation  on  the  workings  of  our  mind — an  equilibrium 
between  the  real  and  the  imaginary  worlds.  In  Hamlet  this  balance  is 
disturbed ;  his  thoughts  and  the  images  of  his  fancy  are  far  more  vivid 
than  his  actual  perceptions  ;  and  his  very  perceptions,  instantly  passing 
through  the  medium  of  his  contemplation,  acquire,  as  they  pass,  a  form 
and  color  not  actually  their  own.  Hence,  we  see  a  great,  an  almost 
enormous,  intellectual  activity,  and  a  proportionate  aversion  to  real 
action  consequent  upon  it,  with  all  its  symptoms  and  accompanying 
qualities.  This  character  Shakespeare  places  in  circumstances  under 
which  it  is  obliged  to  act  on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  Hamlet  is  brave, 
and  careless  of  death ;  but  he  vacillates  from  sensibility,  and  procrasti- 
nates from  thought,  and  loses  the  power  of  action  in  the  energy  of 
resolve."  COLERIDGE. 


APPENDIX.  135 

"  By  an  internal  impulse,  Hamlet  is  continually  aiming  at  his  own  idea 
of  man ;  whom  he  calls  a  work  of  wonder,  '  noble  in  reason,  infinite  in 
faculties,  in  action  like  an  angel,  in  apprehension  like  a  god.'  And, 
accordingly,  because  it  is,  on  this  account,  repugnant  to  his  nature  to 
adopt  any  course  of  conduct  upon  external  compulsion,  there  arises  a 
conflict  between  the  inward  bias  of  his  mind  and  the  pressure  of  outward 
circumstances.  He  is  unable  to  enter  upon  the  enjoined  work,  not 
simply  because  it  is  too  great  and  weighty  for  him,  but  because  he 
cannot  transmute  it  into  an  inward  spontaneous  impulse  of  his  own. 
Hence  come  his  vacillation,  his  hesitating  and  procrastinating,  and  his 
fluctuating  purpose,  now  advancing  and  now  falling  back ;  hence,  too, 
the  vehemence  of  his  self-accusation,  with  which  he  would  goad  himself 
into  prompt  measures,  without,  however,  being  able  to  control  time 
and  its  flight;  hence,  too,  the  inconsistency  and  irresolution  of  his 
proceedings,  and  apparently  also  of  his  character."  ULRICI. 

VII.— TIME,  AGE  AND  PERSONS  OF  HAMLET. 

Queen  Gertrude  is  married  to  King  Claudius  within  a  month  after  the 
death  of  King  Hamlet.  Within  two  months  after  that  occurrence  the 
spirit  of  the  deceased  monarch  appears  to  the  Prince.  The  first  act 
opens  at  midnight,  and  covers  about  twenty-four  hours.  In  the  play- 
scene  it  is  stated  by  Ophelia  that  King  Hamlet  has  been  dead  four 
months.  About  two  months,  therefore,  must  be  supposed  to  elapse 
between  Hamlet's  meeting  with  his  father's  ghost  and  the  scene  in  which 
he  catches  the  conscience  of  the  King.  On  the  night  of  the  play  he  kills 
Polonius.  The  next  day  [see  the  beginning  of  Act  IV.]  he  is  embarked 
for  England.  He  has  been  two  days  at  sea  when  he  escapes  to  the 
pirate  galley.  It  may  be  assumed  that  his  homeward  journey  occupies 
two  days  more, —  perhaps  longer.  Polonius,  meanwhile,  has  been 
hurriedly  and  privately  buried,  and  Ophelia  has  gone  mad  and  been 
accidentally  drowned.  Hamlet  is  in  Elsinore  on  the  day  of  Ophelia's 
burial,  and  he,  by  chance,  meets  the  funeral  train  in  the  church-yard. 
The  final  catastrophe  seems  to  occur  immediately  after  the  interment, — 
albeit,  a  bout  with  foils  is  an  incident  but  harshly  consorted  with  the  day 
of  such  a  solemnity.  Altogether,  the  action  of  "  Hamlet"  is  seen  to  be 
circumscribed,  certainly,  within  ten  weeks.  The  season  of  the  year  is 
indeterminate.  "The  air  bites  shrewdly"  in  the  first  act;  but  Ophelia 
gathers  flowers  in  the  fourth,  and  a  military  expedition  is  seen  to  be  in 
progress.  Late  autumn  is  the  season  most  consonant  with  the  tone  of 
the  tragedy.  The  grave-digger's  words  show  that  Hamlet  is  thirty  years 


136  APPENDIX. 

old ;  the  Queen,  accordingly,  must  be  set  down  at  about  forty-eight. 
The  King,  it  seems  reasonable  to  think,  is  younger  than  his  wife,  or 
about  her  own  age.  Horatio  should  be  older  than  Hamlet,  and 
Laertes  considerably  younger.  Polonius,  whom  Coleridge  well 
denotes  as  "  the  personification  of  wisdom  no  longer  possessed,"  should 
be  deemed  about  sixty.  Ophelia  is  "a  young  maid."  The  courtiers 
are,  obviously,  young  men.  It  is  Shakespeare's  method,  in  displaying 
action  long  past,  to  display  it  as  if  proceeding  in  the  present,  and  to 
surround  and  embellish  it  with  illustrative  accessories,  often  appertaining 
to  a  period  long  subsequent  to  its  own.  There  was,  for  example,  no 
University  at  Wittenberg  in  the  period  of  "  Hamlet,"  but  there  was  a 
University  there  in  the  time  of  Shakespeare.  King  Claudius,  like  King 
John  (1199),  is  furnished  with  cannon  ;  but,  in  fact,  cannon  were  not  in 
use  till  the  later  period  of  the  battle  of  Cressy  (1346).  In  short,  the 
civilization,  the  feelings,  and  the  adjuncts  of  the  tragedy  [and  this 
determines  the  character  of  the  dresses  and  properties  that  may  be 
used  in  representing  it]  are  consonant,  not  with  the  period  to  which  it 
relates,  but  to  the  period  in  which  it  was  written.  Mr.  Booth,  however, 
has  been  accustomed  to  dress  this  piece  in  conformity  with  the  usages  of 
an  ancient  period  in  the  history  of  Denmark,  in  order  to  invest  its  scenes 
with  something  of  the  character  of  the  age  to  which  its  story  relates. 

W.  W. 


MACBETH 


VOL.    I 


"  is  remarkable,  even  among  the  works  of 
Shakespeare,  for  sustained  continuity  of  rapid  move- 
ment, and  for  a  uniform  and  abiding  quality  of  high  and 
weird  poetic  mood.  In  general,  as  may  be  gathered  from 
Ben  Jonson's  famous  commemorative  lines,  its  author  was  a 
scrupulous  and  thorough  reviser  of  his  own  writings.  He 
did  not  scorn  to  reinforce  his  spontaneous  creative  power 
with  laborious  art,  and  thus  he  produced  his  "  well-torned 
and  true-filed  lines  "  by  striking  "  the  second  heat  upon  the 
Muses'  anvil."  But,  in  the  writing  of  "  Macbeth"  he  seems 
to  have  enjoyed  supreme  mental  freedom.  He  possessed  an 
hour  of  insight,  and  his  art  was  merged  in  inspiration.  The 
piece  is  breezy  with  power,  and  is  totally  free  from  the  heavi- 
ness and  difficulty  of  a  constrained  effort.  Even  the  quality 
of  the  verse  is  invariable  throughout  this  play.  No  feeble 
passages  occur  in  it.  The  texture  of  the  fifth  act  is  as  firm 
as  the  texture  of  the  first.  The  rush  of  dramatic  action 
enters  into  and  vitalizes  almost  every  part  of  the  mechanism. 
A  piece  thus  vigorously  and  happily  created  cannot  lapse  from 
movement  into  narrative.  Ail  stage  versions  of  "  Macbeth" 
accordingly,  present,  with  but  slight  curtailment  or  other  altera- 
tion, the  original  of  Shakespeare.  The  version  herewith 
printed  gives  the  text  as  it  is  tised  by  Edwin  Booth,  and  illus- 
trates it  with  the  stage  business — whether  traditional  or  newly 
devised —  which  he  employs.  Excisions  and  changes  of  the 
original  will  be  observed  in  it ;  but  these  — few  in  number, 
though  important  in  character — are  thought  to  be  necessary 


and  justifiable.  Lady  Macbeth,  for  example,  is  not  brought 
on  amid  the  tumult  of  horror  and  consternation  which  ensues 
upon  the  discovery  of  the  murder  of  Duncan,  for  the  reason 
that,  while  the  dramatic  point  here  made  is  splendid  and 
thrilling,  it  does  not  often  happen  that  a  representative  of 
Lady  Macbeth  proves  able  to  give  it  its  proper  effect.  The 
slaughter  of  Banquo  is  omitted,  as  a  needless  exhibition  of 
melodramatic  violence.  The  killing  of  Lady  Macduff —  an 
incident  usually  discarded —  is  expunged  for  the  same  reason. 
Tliis,  indeed,  is  a  superfluity  of  horror,  much  like  the  actual 
digging  out  of  Gloster's  eyes,  in  "  King  Lear."  The  spectre 
(.>/  Banquo  is  treated  as  the  "  bodiless  creation  "  of  Macbeth 's 
haunted  mind.  "  When  all 's  done"  says  the  Queen,  '•'•you 
hok  but  on  a  stool."  TJiis  phantom,  in  accordance  with  the 
old  stage  direction,  "  Enter  the  Ghost  of  Banquo  and  sits  in 
Mac  betfts  place"  was  always  presented  in  material  form  and 
with  gory  visage,  till  John  Philip  Kemble,  acting  Macbeth, 
treated  it  as  kindred  with  the  illusion  of  "  the  air-drawn 
dagger"  and  assumed  it  to  be  invisible  to  all  but  the  King. 
Amplifying  lines  have  been  excluded,  at  various  points  in 
the  piece.  The  colloquy  between  Malcolm  and  Macduff  in 
Act  Fourth  has  been  shortened,  and  the  dubious  and  non- 
essential  part  of  Hecate  has  been  omitted.  This  part,  there 
is  reason  to  believe,  was  interpolated  into  Shakespeare'1  s  work, 
after  his  death,  or  after  he  had  withdrawn  from  the  theatre. 
This  is  the  opinion  of  the  Cambridge  editors,  Clark  and 
Wright,  who  also  think  that  the  parts  assigned  to  "  the  weird 
sisters  "  were  expanded  by  a  second  author —  not  improbably 
Thomas  Middleton.  This  writer  was  chronologer  to  the 
city  of  London  in  1626,  and  died  a  little  after  that  year.  A 
play  by  him,  called11  The  Witch"  much  resembling  " Mac- 
beth" was  discovered,  in  manuscript,  in  1779,  and  Steevens 
maintained  that  this  was  earlier  than  Shakespeare's  "  Mac- 
beth" and  that  Shakespeare  borrowed  from  it  the  incanta- 
tions in  his  tragedy.  The  editors  of  the  "  Biographia  Dra- 
matica  "  folloii)  this  view  y  but  the  weight  of  opinion  is  opposed 
to  it.  Shakespeare,  it  is  thought,  left  theatrical  life  about 
1604;  and  he  died  in  1616.  "  Macbeth"  which  was  never 
published  during  his  life-time,  might  readily  have  been  altered 


in  the  theatre,  before  it  came  into  the  possession  of  Heminge 
and  Condell,  who  first  gave  it  to  the  world  in  their  folio  of 
1623.  Dr.  Dowden,  a  sagacious  authority,  considers  Mid- 
dletorfs  "  Witch  "  to  be  of  later  date  than  Shakespeare's 
'•'•Macbeth."  The  text  of  the  Folio  of  1623  has  been  followed, 
except  in  a  very  few  instances,  in  this  reprint.  Shakespeare 
found  the  materials  for  this  tragedy  in  Holinshed's  Chronicle. 
It  is  thought  to  have  been  written  after  1603,  because  of  its 
allusion  to  the  union  of  the  sovereignties  of  England  and 
Scotland,  under  James  I.,  who  came  to  the  throne  in  that 
year.  This  reference  is  to  kings  "  that  twofold  balls  and 
treble  sceptres  carry."  Malone  thought  it  was  written  about 
1606.  Dr.  Forman  saw  "Macbeth"  acted,  on  April  2oth, 
1610,  at  the  Globe,  in  Southwark;  so  that  the  piece  could  not 
have  been  of  later  date  than  that.  Shakespeare  was,  prob- 
ably, at  New  Place,  in  Stratford,  when  he  wrote  it.  The 
original  representative  of  Macbeth  was  Burbage.  The 
part  has  been  acted  by  all  the  prominent  English-speaking 
tragedians  who  have  followed  in  his  illustrious  footsteps. 
Betterton,  Garrick,  Barry,  Macklin^  Young,  Kemble,  Kean, 
Vandenhoff,  Forrest,  Jtmius  Booth,  Davenport,  and  Brooke — 
all  were  famous  in  it.  Garrick,  notwithstanding  that  he 
dressed  it  in  scarlet  coat  and  white  wig,  is  said  to  have  uttered 
its  deep  and  various  meaning  with  wonderful  power.  Kem- 
ble's  Macbeth  was  accoitnted  prodigious.  J5uf,  probably,  this 
great  character  found  its  consummate  interpreter  in  Macready. 
Gould,  in  his  ';  Tragedian"  gives  this  glimpse  of  the  method 
of  several  of  these  renowned  actors  :  "  Vandenhoff  played  the 
imagery;  Macready,  the  analysis ;  Kean,  the  passion  of  the 
scene ;  Booth,  the  character —  which  not  only  includes  the 
other  methods  but  supplies  an  element  wanting  in  them." 

W.    W. 
New-  York,  September  2?th,  1878. 


"  Old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 

And  battles  long  ago."— WORDSWORTH. 

1 '  Can  nothing  great,  and  at  the  height, 
Remain  so  long?  but  its  own  weight 
Will  ruin  it?" — BEN  JONSON. 

" Noctes  atque  dies patet  atri  Janua  Ditis." — VIRGIL. 

"  Harke!  the  ravenne  fiappes  hys  wynge 

In  the  briered  delle  belowe  : 
Harke  !  the  deathe-owle  loude  dothe  synge 

To  the  nyghte-mares  as  heie  goe." — CHATTERTON. 

"  Ghosts  are  seen  there  at  noon :  the  valley  is  silent,  and  the  people  shun 
the  place  of  I^amor.  *  *  *  *  Darkness  rests  on  the  steeps  of  Cromla. 
A  distant  wind  roars  in  the  woods.  Silent  and  dark  is  the  plain  of  death. 
*  *  *  *  They  shall  mark  it  like  the  haunt  of  ghosts,  pleasant  and 
dreadful  to  the  soul."—  OssiAN. 

"He  strives  against  the  stream,  nor  can  his  power  reverse  the  first  decrees 
of  fate."—  CERVANTES. 

"And  sleep  shall  obey  me, 
And  visit  thee  never. 
And  the  curse  shall  be  on  thee 
Forever  and  ever. ' ' —  So  UTHEY. 

"A  burning  cauldron  stood  in  the  midst, 

The  flame  was  fierce  and  high, 
And  all  the  cave,  so  wide  and  long, 

Was  plainly  seen  thereby     *     *     *     * 
The  lights  they  fied,  the  cauldron  sunk. 

Deep  thunders  shook  the  dome, 
And  hollow  peals  of  laughter  came. 
Resounding  through  the  gloom." 

HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 

"  With  hopes  that  but  allure  to  fly. 

With  joys  that  vanish  while  he  sips, 
Like  Dead  Sea  fruits,  that  tempt  the  eye. 
But  turn  to  ashes  on  the  lips." — MOORE. 

"  For  all  things  born  one  gate 

Opens,  no  gate  of  gold  ; 
Opens — and  no  man  sees 
Beyond  the  gods  and  fate."—  SWINBURNE. 


'Brave  Macbeth  (well  he  deserves  that  name). 
Disdaining  fortune ,  with  his  brandished  steel." 


"  What  are  these. 

So  withered,  and  so  wild  in  their  attire. 
That  look  not  like  th'  inhabitants  o'  the  earth  ? ' 


'  Were  such  things  here  as  we  do  speak  about  f 
Or  have  we  eaten  on  the  insane  root 
That  takes  the  reason  prisoner  f  " 


'  'Look  like  the  innocent  flower, 
But  be  the  serpent  under  it." 


"Now,  o'er  the  one  half  world 
Nature  seems  dead,  and  wicked  dreams  abuse 
The  curtained  sleep. 


'  'Most  sacrilegious  murder  hath  broke  ope 
The  Lord's  anointed 'temple,  and  stole  thence 
The  life  o'  the  building." 


'  'Better  be  with  the  dead, 

Whom  we,  to  gain  our  place,  have  sent  to  peace. 
Than  on  the  torture  of  the  mind  to  lie, 
In  restless  ecstasy." 

"Canst  thou  not  minister  to  a  mind  diseased, 
Pluck  from  the  memory  a  rooted  sorrow  ; 
Raze  out  the  written  troubles  of  the  brain  ?  " 


"I  am  in  blood 

Stepped  in  so  far,  that,  should  I  wade  no  more, 
Returning  were  as  tedious  as  go  o'er." 


'Great  Dunsinane  he  strongly  fortifies  : 
Some  say  he  's  mad:  others,  that  lesser  hate  him. 
Do  call  it  valiant  fury." 


"This  dead  butcher,  and  his  fiend-like  queen  — 
Who,  as  't  is  thought,  by  self  and  violent  hands 
Took  off  her  life." 


DUNCAN,  King  of  Scotland. 
MALCOLM, 


DONALBAIN,  '  Sons  io  Duncan' 
MACBETH,  )  ; 

BANQUO,    }  Generals  °f  &*****  army. 
MACDUFF,  \ 

LENNOX,    >  Noblemen  of  Scotland. 
ROSSE,        J 

FLEANCE,  Son  to  Banquo. 
SEYTON,  an  Officer  attending  on  Macbeth. 
A  DOCTOR. 
A  SOLDIER. 
A  PORTER. 
A  SERVANT. 
LADY  MACBETH. 

GENTLEWOMAN,  attending  on  Lady  Macbeth. 
THREE  WITCHES. 

LORDS,  LADIES,  GENTLEMEN,  OFFICERS,  SOLDIERS,  MUR- 
DERERS, ATTENDANTS,  and  MESSENGERS. 
SEVERAL  APPARITIONS. 


anii  €ime. 


SCENE.  —  Chiefly  in  Scotland:  Macbeth  's  Castle,  at  Inverness; 
the  Royal  Palace,  at  Forres  ;  Dunsinane  ;  and  other 
places.  -One  scene  passes  in  England. 

PERIOD.  —  The  Eleventh  Century  [1040-1056-7]. 

TIME  OF  ACTION.  —  Uncertain.  The  action  proceeds  in  brief 
periods,  scattered,  at  intervals,  over  seventeen  years. 


MACBETH. 


f  A  WILD  OPEN  PLACE.     NIGHT.    THUNDEK 
\     AND  LIGHTNING. 

\Enterthree  Witches*. 

First  Witch. 

When  shall  we  three  meet  again 
In  thunder,  lightning,  or  in  rain  ? 

Second  Witch. 

When  the  hurlyburly  's  done, 
When  the  battle  's  lost  and  won. 

Third  Witch. 
That  will  be  ere  the  set  of  sun. 

first  Witch. 
Where  the  place  ? 

Second  Witch. 
Upon  the  heath. 

Third  Witch. 
There  to  meet  with  —  Macbeth. 

First  Witch. 
I  come,  Graymalkin! 


IO  MACBETH. 

All. 

Paddock  calls : —  anon !  — 

Fair  is  foul,  and  foul  is  fair : 

Hover  through  the  fog  and  filthy  air. 

[  Witches  vanish, — Scene  changes. 


§>econto. — A  CAMP  NEAR  FORRES. 

[March. — Enter  Duncan,  Malcolm,  Donalbain, 
Lennox,  with  Attendants,  meeting  a  bleeding 
Soldier. 

Dun. 

What  bloody  man  is  that  ?     He  can  report, 
As  seemeth  by  his  plight,  of  the  revolt 
The  newest  state. 

Mai. 

This  is  the  sergeant, 

Who,  like  a  good  and  hardy  soldier,  fought 
'Gainst  my  captivity. —  Hail,  brave  friend ! 
Say  to  the  king  the  knowledge  of  the  broil 
As  thou  didst  leave  it. 

Sold. 

Doubtful  it  stood ; 

As  two  spent  swimmers,  that  do  cling  together 
And  choke  their  art.    The  merciless  Macdonwald 
(Worthy  to  be  a  rebel, — for,  to  that, 
The  multiplying  villainies  of  nature 
Do  swarm  upon  him)  from  the  western  isles 
Of  kerns  and  gallowglasses  is  supplied ; 
And  fortune,  on  his  damned  quarry  smiling, 
Showed  like  a  rebel's  drab :  but  all  's  too  weak: 
For  brave  Macbeth  (well  he  deserves  that  name), 
Disdaining  fortune,  with  his  brandished  steel, 


MACBETH.  II 

Which  smoked  with  bloody  execution, 

Like  valour's  minion, 

Carved  out  his  passage  till  he  faced  the  slave ; 

Which  ne'er  shook  hands,  nor  bade  farewell  to  him, 

Till  he  unseamed  him  from  the  nave  to  the  chaps ; 

And  fixed  his  head  upon  our  battlements. 

Dun. 
O,  valiant  cousin !  worthy  gentleman ! 

Sold. 

Mark,  King  of  Scotland,  mark: 
No  sooner  justice  had,  with  valour  armed, 
Compelled  these  skipping  kerns  to  trust  their  heels, 
But  the  Norweyan  lord,  surveying  vantage, 
With  furbished  arms  and  new  supplies  of  men, 
Began  a  fresh  assault. 

Dun. 

Dismayed  not  this 

Our  captains,  Macbeth  and  Banquo  ? 

Sold. 
Yes; 

As  sparrows  eagles,  or  the  hare  the  lion. — 
But  I  am  faint,  my  gashes  cry  for  help. 

Dun. 

So  well  thy  words  become  thee  as  thy  wounds; 
They  smack  of  honour  both. 

Go,  get  him  surgeons.  [  To  Attendants. 

\Exit  Soldier,  attended. 
Who  comes  here  ? 

Mai. 
The  worthy  thane  of  Fife. 

Len. 

What  a  haste  looks  through  his  eyes ! 

So  should  he  look  that  seems  to  speak  things  strange. 


12  MACBETH. 

[Enter  Macduff. 
Macduff. 
God  save  the  king ! 

Dun. 
Whence  cam'st  thou,  worthy  thane  ? 

Macduff. 

From  Fife,  great  king; 
Where  the  Norweyan  banners  flout  the  sky 
And  fan  our  people  cold. 
Norway  himself,  with  terrible  numbers, 
Assisted  by  that  most  disloyal  traitor, 
The  thane  of  Cawdor,  'gan  a  dismal  conflict  ; 
Till  that  Bellona's  bridegroom,  lapped  in  proof, 
Confronted  him  with  self-comparisons, 
Point  against  point,  rebellious  arm  'gainst  arm, 
Curbing  his  lavish  spirit :  and,  to  conclude, 
The  victory  fell  on  us 

Dun. 
Great  happiness ! 

Macduff. 
That  now 

Sweno,  the  Norways'  king,  craves  composition; 
Nor  would  we  deign  him  burial  of  his  men 
Till  he  disbursed,  at  Saint  Colmes-inch, 
Ten  thousand  dollars  to  our  general  use. 

Dun. 

No  more  that  thane  of  Cawdor  shall  deceive 

Our  bosom  interest : — go,  pronounce  his  present  death, 

And  with  his  former  title  greet  Macbeth. 

Macduff. 
I  '11  see  it  done. 

Dun. 
What  he  hath  lost  noble  Macbeth  hath  won. 

\March. — Exeunt.  —  Scene  changes. 


MACBETH.  13 

•a.  «rt-  ...    (  A  LONELY  HEATH.       NlGHT-FALL.     LlGHT- 

Scene  QPftfe  {     NING  AND  THUNDER. 

[Enter  the  three  Witches, 

First  Witch. 
Where  hast  them  been,  sister  ? 

Second  Witch. 
Killing  swine. 

Third  Witch. 
Sister,  where  thou  ? 

First  Witch. 

A  sailor's  wife  had  chestnuts  in  her  lap, 

And  mounched,  and  mounched,  and  mounched  :  — 

"  Give  me,"  quoth  I : 

"Aroint  thee,  witch  ! "  the  rump-fed  ronyon  cries. — 

Her  husband  's  to  Aleppo  gone,  master  o'  the  Tiger : 

But  in  a  sieve  I  '11  thither  sail, 

And,  like  a  rat  without  a  tail, 

I  '11  do,  I  '11  do,  and  I  '11  do. 

Second  Witch. 
I  '11  give  thee  a  wind. 

First  Witch. 
Thou  art  kind. 

Third  Witch. 
And  I  another. 

First  Witch. 

I  myself  have  all  the  other ; 
And  the  very  ports  they  blow, 
All  the  quarters  that  they  know 
I'  the  shipman's  card. 
I  '11  drain  him  dry  as  hay : 
Sleep  shall  neither  night  nor  day 
Hang  upon  his  pent-house  lid; 


MACBETH. 


He  shall  live  a  man  forbid : 
Weary  seven-nights  nine  times  nine 
Shall  he  dwindle,  peak,  and  pine  : 
Though  his  bark  cannot  be  lost, 
Yet  it  shall  be  tempest-tost. — 
Look  what  I  have. 

Second  Witch. 
Show  me,  show  me. 

First  Witch. 

Here  I  have  a  pilot's  thumb, 
Wrecked  as  homeward  he  did  come. 

Third  Witch. 
A  drum,  a  drum  ! 
Macbeth  doth  come. 

All. 

The  weird  sisters,  hand  in  hand, 
Posters  of  the  sea  and  land, 
Thus  do  go  about,  about ; 
Thrice  to  thine,  and  thrice  to  mine, 
And  thrice  again,  to  make  up  nine  : 
Peace!  the  charm  's  wound  up. 


[Displaying  this. 
[Drum  within. 


Witches  join  hands, 
move  round  in 
circle,  and  bow 
thrice. 


[Enter  Macbeth  and  Banquo. 

Macbeth. 
So  foul  and  fair  a  day  I  have  not  seen. 

Ban. 

How  far  is  't  called  to  Forres  ?  — What  are  these 

So  withered,  and  so  wild  in  their  attire, 

That  look  not  like  th'  inhabitants  o'  the  earth, 

And  yet  are  on  't  ?  — Live  you  ?  or  are  you  aught 

That  man  may  question  ?     You  seem  to  understand  me, 

By  each  at  once  her  choppy  finger  laying 

Upon  her  skinny  lips  :  —  you  should  be  women, 

And  yet  your  beards  forbid  me  to  interpret 

That  you  are  so. 


MACBETH.  15 

Macbeth. 
Speak,  if  you  can ;  —  what  are  you  ? 

First  Witch. 
All  hail,  Macbeth  !  hail  to  thee,  thane  of  Glamis ! 

Second  Witch. 
All  hail,  Macbeth  !  hail  to  thee,  thane  of  Cawdor ! 

Third  Witch. 
All  hail,  Macbeth,  that  shalt  be  king  hereafter ! 

Ban. 

Good  sir,  why  do  you  start,  and  seem  to  fear 
Things  that  do  sound  so  fair  ?  — I'  the  name  of  truth, 

[  To  the  witches. 

Are  ye  fantastical,  or  that  indeed 
Which  outwardly  ye  show  ?     My  noble  partner 
You  greet  with  present  grace,  and  great  prediction 
Of  noble  having  and  of  royal  hope, 
That  he  seems  rapt  withal :  —  to  me  you  speak  not. 
If  you  can  look  into  the  seeds  of  time, 
And  say  which  grain  will  grow,  and  which  will  not, 
Speak,  then,  to  me,  who  neither  beg  nor  fear 
Your  favours  nor  your  hate. 

First  Witch. 
Hail! 

Second  Witch. 
Hail! 

Third  Witch. 
Hail! 

First  Witch. 
Lesser  than  Macbeth,  and  greater. 

Second  Witch. 
Not  so  happy,  yet  much  happier. 


1 6  MACBETH. 

Third  Witch. 

Thou  shalt  get  kings,  though  thou  be  none : 
So,  all  hail,  Macbeth  and  Banquo ! 

First  Witch. 
Banquo  and  Macbeth,  all  hail ! 

Macbeth. 

Stay,  you  imperfect  speakers,  tell  me  more : 

By  Sinel's  death  I  know  I  am  thane  of  Glamis ; 

But  how  of  Cawdor  ?  the  thane  of  Cawdor  lives, 

A  prosperous  gentleman ;  and  to  be  king 

Stands  not  within  the  prospect  of  belief, 

No  more  than  to  be  Cawdor.     Say  from  whence 

You  owe  this  strange  intelligence  ?  or  why 

Upon  this  blasted  heath  you  stop  our  way 

With  such  prophetic  greeting  ?     Speak,  I  charge  you. 

[  Witches  vanish. 

Ban. 

The  earth  hath  bubbles,  as  the  water  has, 
And  these  are  of  them: — whither  are  they  vanished? 

Macbeth. 

Into  the  air ;  and  what  seemed  corporal  melted 
As  breath  into  the  wind. —  Would  they  had  stayed! 

Ban. 

Were  such  things  here  as  we  do  speak  about  ? 
Or  have  we  eaten  on  the  insane  root 
That  takes  the  reason  prisoner  ? 

Macbeth. 
Your  children  shall  be  kings. 

Ban. 
You  shall  be  king. 

Macbeth. 
And  thane  of  Cawdor,  too, —  went  it  not  so  ? 


MACBETH.  17 

Ban. 

To  the  self-same  tune  and  words. —  [  Trumpet. 

Who  's  here  ? 

\Enter  Rosse  and  Macduff. 

Macduff. 

The  king  hath  happily  received,  Macbeth, 
The  news  of  thy  success  :  and  when  he  reads 
Thy  personal  venture  in  the  rebels'  fight, 
His  wonders  and  his  praises  do  contend 
Which  should  be  thine  or  his :  silenced  with  that, 
In  viewing  o'er  the  rest  o'  the  self-same  day, 
He  finds  thee  in  the  stout  Norweyan  ranks, 
Nothing  afeared  of  what  thyself  didst  make, 
Strange  images  of  death.     As  thick  as  tale, 
Come  post  with  post ;  and  every  one  did  bear 
Thy  praises  in  his  kingdom's  great  defence, 
And  poured  them  down  before  him. 

Rosse. 

We  are  sent 

To  give  thee,  from  our  royal  master,  thanks ; 
Only  to  herald  thee  into  his  sight, 
Not  pay  thee. 

Macduff. 

And,  for  an  earnest  of  a  greater  honour, 
He  bade  me,  from  him,  call  thee  thane  of  Cawdor : 
In  which  addition,  hail,  most  worthy  thane ! 
For  it  is  thine. 

Ban.  \Aside, 

What !  can  the  devil  speak  true  ? 

Macbeth. 

The  thane  of  Cawdor  lives  :  why  do  you  dress  me 
In  borrowed  robes  ? 

Macduff. 

Who  was  the  thane  lives  yet ; 

But  under  heavy  judgment  bears  that  life 


1 8  MACBETH. 

Which  he  deserves  to  lose. 

For  treasons  capital,  confessed  and  proved, 

Have  overthrown  him. 

Macbeth,  [Aside. 

Glamis,  and  thane  of  Cawdor; 

The  greatest  is  behind. — 

Thanks  for  your  pains. —  [To  Macdujffand  Rosse. 

Do  you  not  hope  your  children  shall  be  kings, 

[To  Banquo. 

When  those  that  gave  the  thane  of  Cawdor  to  me 
Promised  no  less  to  them  ? 

Ban. 

That,  trusted  home, 

Might  yet  enkindle  you  unto  the  crown, 
Besides  the  thane  of  Cawdor.     But 't  is  strange : 
And  oftentimes,  to  win  us  to  our  harm, 
The  instruments  of  darkness  tell  us  truths, 
Win  us  with  honest  trifles,  to  betray  us 
In  deepest  consequence — 
Cousins,  a  word,  I  pray  you.  [To  Macdiiff  and  Rosse. 

Macbeth.  [Aside. 

Two  truths  are  told, 
As  happy  prologues  to  the  swelling  act 
Of  the  imperial  theme. — 

I  thank  you,  gentlemen. —  [To  Macditff and  Rosse. 

This  supernatural  soliciting  [Aside. 

Cannot  be  ill ;  cannot  be  good  : — if  ill, 
Why  hath  it  given  me  earnest  of  success, 
Commencing  in  a  truth  ?     I  am  thane  of  Cawdor : 
If  good,  why  do  I  yield  to  that  suggestion 
Whose  horrid  image  doth  unfix  my  hair, 
And  make  my  seated  heart  knock  at  my  ribs, 
Against  the  use  of  nature  ?     Present  fears 
Are  less  than  horrible  imaginings  : 
My  thought,  whose  murder  yet  is  but  fantastical, 
Shakes  so  my  single  state  of  man,  that  function 


MACBETH.  19 

Is  smothered  in  surmise  ;  and  nothing  is 
But  what  is  not. 

Ban. 
Look,  how  our  partner  's  rapt. 

Macbeth.  [Aside. 

If  chance  will  have  me  king,  why,  chance  may  crown  me, 
Without  my  stir. 

Ban. 

New  honours  come  upon  him 

Like  our  strange  garments,  cleave  not  to  their  mould 

But  with  the  aid  of  use. 

Macbeth.  [Aside. 

Come  what  come  may, 
Time  and  the  hour  runs  through  the  roughest  day. 

Ban. 
Worthy  Macbeth,  we  stay  upon  your  leisure. 

Macbeth. 

Give  me  your  favour :  —  my  dull  brain  was  wrought 
With  things  forgotten.     Kind  gentlemen,  your  pains 
Are  registered  where  every  day  I  turn 
The  leaf  to  read  them. —  Let  us  toward  the  king : 

[Aside  to  Banquo. 

Think  upon  what  hath  chanced ;  and,  at  more  time, 
The  interim  having  weighed  it,  let  us  speak 
Our  free  hearts  each  to  other. 

Ban. 
Very  gladly. 

Macbeth. 
Till  then,  enough. —  Come,  friends. 

[Exeunt.  —  Scene  changes. 


20  MACBETH. 

§>cen*  JFottrtl). — FORRES.     SAME  AS  SCENE  SECOND. 

[Flourish.     Enter  Duncan,  Malcolm,  Donalbain, 
Lennox,  and  Attendants. 

Dun. 

Is  execution  done  on  Cawdor  ?     Are  not 
Those  in  commission  yet  returned  ? 

Mai. 
My  liege, 

They  are  not  yet  come  back.     But  I  have  spoke 
With  one  that  saw  him  die :  who  did  report, 
That  very  frankly  he  confessed  his  treasons; 
Implored  your  highness'  pardon ;  and  set  forth 
A  deep  repentance  :  nothing  in  his  life 
Became  him  like  the  leaving  it ;  he  died 
As  one  that  had  been  studied  in  his  death, 
To  throw  away  the  dearest  thing  he  owed, 
As  't  were  a  careless  trifle. 

Dun. 

There  's  no  art 

To  find  the  mind's  construction  in  the  face  : 
He  was  a  gentleman  on  whom  I  built 
An  absolute  trust 

[Enter  Macbeth,  Banquo,  Rosse,  and  Macduff. 

O,  worthiest  cousin  !  [To  Macbeth, 

The  sin  of  my  ingratitude  even  now 

Was  heavy  on  me ;  thou  art  so  far  before, 

That  swiftest  wing  of  recompense  is  slow 

To  overtake  thee.     Would  thou  hadst  less  deserved, 

That  the  proportion  both  of  thanks  and  payment 

Might  have  been  mine !  only  I  have  left  to  say, 

More  is  thy  due  than  more  than  all  can  pay. 

Macbeth. 

The  service  and  the  loyalty  I  owe, 
In  doing  it,  pays  itself.     Your  highness'  part 


MACBETH.  21 

Is  to  receive  our  duties :  and  our  duties 
Are  to  your  throne  and  state  children  and  servants ; 
Which  do  but  what  they  should,  by  doing  everything 
Safe  toward  your  love  and  honour. 

Dun. 

Welcome  hither : 

I  have  begun  to  plant  thee,  and  will  labour 
To  make  thee  full  of  growing. —  Noble  Banquo 
That  has  no  less  deserved,  nor  must  be  known 
No  less  to  have  done  so :  let  me  enfold  thee, 
And  hold  thee  to  my  heart. 

Ban. 

There  if  I  grow, 
The  harvest  is  your  own. 

Dun. 

My  plenteous  joys, 

Wanton  in  fulness,  seek  to  hide  themselves 
In  drops  of  sorrow. —  Sons,  kinsmen,  thanes, 
And  you  whose  places  are  the,  nearest,  know, 
We  will  establish  our  estate  upon 
Our  eldest,  Malcolm  ;  whom  we  name  hereafter 
The  Prince  of  Cumberland  :  which  honour  must 
Not  unaccompanied  invest  him  only, 
But  signs  of  nobleness,  like  stars,  shall  shine 
On  all  deservers. —  From  hence  to  Inverness, 
And  bind  us  further  to  you.  [  To  Macbeth. 

Macbeth. 

The  rest  is  labour  which  is  not  used  for  you : 
I  '11  be  myself  the  harbinger,  and  make  joyful 
The  hearing  of  my  wife  with  your  approach; 
So,  humbly  take  my  leave. 

Dun. 
My  worthy  Cawdor  ! 

\Exeitnt  all  but  Macbeth. 


22  MACBETH. 

Macbeth, 

The  Prince  of  Cumberland !  that  is  a  step 
On  which  I  must  fall  down,  or  else  o'erleap, 
For  in  my  way  it  lies.     Stars,  hide  your  fires ; 
Let  not  light  see  my  black  and  deep  desires : 
The  eye  wink  at  the  hand ;  yet  let  that  be, 
Which  the  eye  fears,  when  it  is  done,  to  see. 

[Exit. —  Scene  changes. 


A    ROOM    IN    MACBETH'S 


[Enter  Lady  Macbeth,  reading  a  letter. 

Lady  M. 

"  They  met  me  in  the  day  of  success ;  and  I  have  learned 
by  the  perfectest  report  they  have  more  in  them  than 
mortal  knowledge.  When  I  burned  in  desire  to  question 
them  further,  they  made  themselves  air,  into  which  they 
vanished.  Whiles  I  stood  rapt  in  the  wonder  of  it,  came 
missives  from  the  king,  who  all-hailed  me,  'Thane  of 
Cawdor ; '  by  which  title,  before,  these  weird  sisters  saluted 
me,  and  referred  me  to  the  coming  on  of  time,  with  '  Hail 
king  that  shalt  be ! '  This  have  I  thought  good  to  deliver 
thee,  my  dearest  partner  of  greatness,  that  thou  mightst 
not  lose  the  dues  of  rejoicing,  by  being  ignorant  of  what 
greatness  is  promised  thee.  Lay  it  to  thy  heart,  and 
farewell." 

Glamis  thou  art,  and  Cawdor ;  and  shalt  be 

What  thou  art  promised  :  yet  do  I  fear  thy  nature; 

It  is  too  full  o'  the  milk  of  human  kindness 

To  catch  the  nearest  way :  thou  wouldst  be  great ; 

Art  not  without  ambition — but  without 

The  illness  should  attend  it :  what  thou  wouldst  highly 


MACBETH.  23 

That  wouldst  thou  holily :  wouldst  not  play  false, 

And  yet  wouldst  wrongly  win  : 

Thou  'dst  have,  great  Glamis, 

That  which  cries,  "  Thus  thou  must  do,  if  thou  have  it;" 

And  that  which  rather  thou  dost  fear  to  do 

Than  wishest  should  be  undone.     Hie  thee  hither, 

That  I  may  pour  my  spirits  in  thine  ear; 

And  chastise  with  the  valour  of  my  tongue 

All  that  impedes  thee  from  the  golden  round 

Which  fate  and  metaphysical  aid  doth  seem 

To  have  thee  crowned  withal. 

[Enter  an  Attendant. 
What  is  your  tidings  ? 

Atten. 
The  king  comes  here  to-night. 

Lady  M. 

Thou  art  mad  to  say  it : 

Is  not  thy  master  with  him  ?  who,  were  't  so, 
Would  have  informed  for  preparation. 

Atten. 

So  please  you,  it  is  true  :  — our  thane  is  coming : 
One  of  my  fellows  had  the  speed  of  him ; 
Who,  almost  dead  for  breath,  had  scarcely  more 
Than  would  make  up  his  message. 

Lady  M. 

Give  him  tending ; 
He  brings  great  news. 

{Exit  Attendant. 
The  raven  himself  is  hoarse 
That  croaks  the  fatal  entrance  of  Duncan 
Under  my  battlements.     Come,  you  spirits 
That  tend  on  mortal  thoughts,  unsex  me  here  ; 

f  Touching  her  heart. 

And  fill  me,  from  the  crown  to  the  toe,  top-full 
Of  direst  cruelty  !  make  thick  my  blood, 
Stop  up  the  access  and  passage  to  remorse ; 
That  no  compunctious  visitings  of  nature 


H  MACBETH. 

Shake  my  fell  purpose,  nor  keep  peace  between 

The  effect  and  it !     Come  to  my  woman's  breasts, 

And  take  my  milk  for  gall,  you  murdering  ministers, 

Wherever  in  your  sightless  substances 

You  wait  on  nature's  mischief!     Come,  thick  night, 

And  pall  thee  in  the  dunnest  smoke  of  hell, 

That  my  keen  knife  see  not  the  wound  it  makes, 

Nor  heaven  peep  through  the  blanket  of  the  dark, 

To  cry  "  Hold,  hold ! "  {Enter  Macbeth. 

Great  Glamis  !  worthy  Cawdor ! 

Greater  than  both,  by  the  all-hail  hereafter ! 

Thy  letters  have  transported  me  beyond 

This  ignorant  present,  and  I  feel  now 

The  future  in  the  instant. 

Macbeth. 
My  dearest  love, 
Duncan  comes  here  to-night. 

Lady  M. 
And  when  goes  hence  ? 

Macbeth. 
To-morrow — as  he  purposes. 

Lady  M. 
O,  never 

Shall  sun  that  morrow  see  ! 
Your  face,  my  thane,  is  as  a  book  where  men 
May  read  strange  matters  : — to  beguile  the  time, 
Look  like  the  time ;  bear  welcome  in  your  eye, 
Your  hand,  your  tongue :  look  like  the  innocent  flower, 
But  be  the  serpent  under  it.     He  that 's  coming 
Must  be  provided  for  :  and  you  shall  put 
This  night's  great  business  into  my  despatch ; 
Which  shall  to  all  our  nights  and  days  to  come 
Give  solely  sovereign  sway  and  masterdom. 

Macbeth. 
We  will  speak  further. 


MACBETH.  25 

Lady  M. 

Only  look  up  clear; 
To  alter  favour  ever  is  to  fear: 
Leave  all  the  rest  to  me.  [Exeunt. —  Scene  changes. 


I  INVERNESS.  IN  FRONT  OF  MACBETH'S 
CASTLE.  MARCH.  —  DUNCAN,  MAL- 
COLM, DONALBAIN,  BANQUO,  LENNOX, 
MACDUFF,  ROSSE,  AND  ATTENDANTS 
ARE  DISCOVERED. 

Dun. 

This  castle  hath  a  pleasant  seat ;  the  air 
Nimbly  and  sweetly  recommends  itself 
Unto  our  gentle  senses. 

Ban. 

This  guest  of  summer, 
The  temple-haunting  martlet,  does  approve, 
By  his  loved  mansionry,  that  the  heaven's  breath 
Smells  wooingly  here  :  no  jutty,  frieze, 
Buttress,  nor  coigne  of  vantage,  but  this  bird 
Hath  made  his  pendent  bed  and  procreant  cradle: 
Where  they  most  breed  and  haunt,  I  have  observed, 
The  air  is  delicate. 

[Enter  Lady  Macbeth,  attended. —  She  kneels. 

Dun. 

See,  see,  our  honoured  hostess  !  — 
The  love  that  follows  us  sometimes  is  our  trouble, 
Which  still  we  thank  as  love.     Herein  I  teach  you 
How  you  shall  bid  God  yield  us  for  your  pains, 
And  thank  us  for  your  trouble. 

Lady  M. 
All  our  service 
In  every  point  twice  done,  and  then  done  double, 


26  MACBETH. 

Were  poor  and  single  business  to  contend 
Against  those  honours  deep  and  broad,  wherewith 
Your  majesty  loads  our  house  :  for  those  of  old, 
And  the  late  dignities  heaped  up  to  them, 
We  rest  your  hermits. 

Dun. 

Where  's  the  thane  of  Cawdor  ? 

We  coursed  him  at  the  heels,  and  had  a  purpose 

To  be  his  purveyor :  but  he  rides  well ; 

And  his  great  love,  sharp  as  his  spur,  hath  holp  him 

To  his  home  before  us.     Fair  and  noble  hostess, 

We  are  your  guest  to-night. 

Lady  M. 

Your  servants  ever 

Have  theirs,  themselves,  and  what  is  theirs,  in  compt, 
To  make  their  audit  at  your  highness'  pleasure, 
Still  to  return  your  own. 

Dun. 

Give  me  your  hand ; 

Conduct  me  to  mine  host ;  we  love  him  highly, 
And  shall  continue  our  graces  towards  him. 
By  your  leave,  hostess.  [March. — Exeunt  info  Castle. 


ftrtent*.  {  INY,ERNESS-     A   RooM  IN  MACBETH'S 

(         L/ASTLE. 

[Enter  Macbeth. 
Macbeth. 

If  it  were  done  when  't  is  done,  then  't  were  well 
It  were  done  quickly :  if  the  assassination 
Could  trammel  up  the  consequence,  and  catch, 
With  his  surcease,  success ;  that  but  this  blow 
Might  be  the  be-all  and  the  end-all  hercy 


MACBETH.  27 

But  here,  upon  this  bank  and  shoal  of  time, — 
We  'd  jump  the  life  to  come.     But,  in  these  cases, 
We  still  have  judgment  here ;  that  we  but  teach 
Bloody  instructions,  which,  being  taught,  return 
To  plague  the  inventor :  this  even-handed  justice 
Commends  the  ingredients  of  our  poisoned  chalice 
To  our  own  lips.     He  's  here  in  double  trust : 
First,  as  I  am  his  kinsman  and  his  subject, 
Strong  both  against  the  deed ;  then,  as  his  host, 
Who  should  against  his  murderer  shut  the  door, 
Not  bear  the  knife  myself.     Besides,  this  Duncan 
Hath  borne  his  faculties  so  meek,  hath  been 
So  clear  in  his  great  office,  that  his  virtues 
Will  plead  like  angels,  trumpet-tongued,  against 
The  deep  damnation  of  his  taking-off; 
And  pity,  like  a  naked  new-born  babe, 
Striding  the  blast,  or  heaven's  cherubin,  horsed 
Upon  the  sightless  couriers  of  the  air, 
Shall  blow  the  horrid  deed  in  every  eye, 
That  tears  shall  drown  the  wind. — I  have  no  spur 
To  prick  the  sides  of  my  intent,  but  only 
Vaulting  ambition,  which  o'erleaps  itself, 

And  falls  on  the  other {Enter  Lady  Macbeth  R. 

How  now !  what  news  ?  [To  Lady  Macbeth. 

Lady  M. 
He  has  almost  supped :  why  have  you  left  the  chamber  ? 

Macbeth. 
Hath  he  asked  for  me  ? 

Lady  M. 
Know  you  not  he  has  ? 

Macbeth. 

We  will  proceed  no  further  in  this  business : 
He  hath  honoured  me  of  late;  and  I  have  bought 
Golden  opinions  from  all  sorts  of  people, 
Which  would  be  worn  now  in  their  newest  gloss, 
Not  cast  aside  so  soon. 


28  MACBETH. 

Lady  M. 

Was  the  hope  drunk 

Wherein  you  dressed  yourself?  hath  it  slept  since  ? 
And  wakes  it  now,  to  look  so  green  and  pale 
At  what  it  did  so  freely?     From  this- time 
Such  I  account  thy  love.     Art  thou  afeared 
To  be  the  same  in  thine  own  act  and  valour 
As  thou  art  in  desire  ?     Wouldst  thou  have  that 
Which  thou  esteem'st  the  ornament  of  life, 
And  live  a  coward  in  thine  own  esteem, 
Letting  "  I  dare  not "  wait  upon  "  I  would," 
Like  the  poor  cat  i'  the  adage  ? 

Macbeth. 
Pr*ythee,  peace : 

I  dare  do  all  that  may  become  a  man ; 
Who  dares  do  more  is  none. 

Lady  M. 

What  beast  was  't,  then, 
That  made  you  break  this  enterprize  to  me  ? 
When  you  durst  do  it,  then  you  were  a  man ; 
And,  to  be  more  than  what  you  were,  you  would 
Be  so  much  more  the  man.     Nor  time  nor  place 
Did  then  adhere,  and  yet  you  would  make  both : 
They  have  made  themselves,  and  that  their  fitness  now 
Does  unmake  you.     I  have  given  suck,  and  know 
How  tender  't  is  to  love  the  babe  that  milks  me : 
I  would,  while  it  was  smiling  in  my  face, 
Have  plucked  my  nipple  from  his  boneless  gums, 
And  dashed  the  brains  out,  had  I  so  sworn 
As  you  have  done  to  this. 

Macbeth. 
If  we  should  fail  ? 

Lady  M. 
We  fail ! 

But  screw  your  courage  to  the  sticking-place 
And  we  '11  not  fail.     When  Duncan  is  asleep 


MACBETH.  29 

(Whereto  the  rather  shall  his  day's  hard  journey 
Soundly  invite  him),  his  two  chamberlains 
Will  I  with  wine  and  wassail  so  convince, 
That  memory,  the  warder  of  the  brain, 
Shall  be  a  fume,  and  the  receipt  of  reason 
A  limbeck  only :  when  in  swinish  sleep 
Their  drenched  natures  lie  as  in  a  death, 
What  cannot  you  and  I  perform  upon 
Th'  unguarded  Duncan  ?  what  not  put  upon 
His  spongy  officers,  who  shall  bear  the  guilt 
Of  our  great  quell  ? 

Macbeth. 

Bring  forth  men  children  only ; 
For  thy  undaunted  mettle  should  compose 
Nothing  but  males.     Will  it  not  be  received, 
When  we  have  marked  with  blood  those  sleepy  two 
Of  his  own  chamber,  and  used  their  very  daggers, 
That  they  have  done  't  ? 

Lady  M. 

Who  dares  receive  it  other, 
As  we  shall  make  our  griefs  and  clamour  roar 
Upon  his  death  ? 

Macbeth. 

I  am  settled,  and  bend  up 
Each  corporal  agent  to  this  terrible  feat. 
Away,  and  mock  the  time  with  fairest  show : 
False  face  must  hide  what  the  false  heart  doth  know. 

\Exeunt. 

CURTAIN. 


~          .p.         (  INVERNESS 
Scene  first.  {     CASTL£ 


INVERNESS.     COURT  WITHIN   MACBETH'S 


[Enter  Banquo,  preceded  by  Fleance  with  a  torch. 

Ban. 
How  goes  the  night,  boy  ? 

Fie. 
The  moon  is  down ;  I  have  not  heard  the  clock. 

Ban. 
And  she  goes  down  at  twelve. 

Fie. 
I  take 't,  't  is  later,  sir. 

Ban. 

Hold,  take  my  sword :  [Gives  his  sword  to  Fleance. 

There  's  husbandry  in  heaven, 

Their  candles  are  all  out : — take  thee  that  too. 

[Gives  his  dagger  to  Fleance. — Banquo  is  here 
conscious  of  the  latent  poiver  of  temptation,  and 
seems  wishful  to  rid  himself  of  all  incentives  to 
dangerous  thoughts,  and  all  the  means  of  mischief. 

A  heavy  summons  lies  like  lead  upon  me, 

And  yet  I  would  not  sleep : — merciful  powers, 

Restrain  in  me  the  cursed  thoughts  that  nature 

Gives  way  to  in  repose !  [Noise  without. 

Give  me  my  sword ; —          [Snatches  sword  from  Fleance. 

Who  's  there  ? 


MACBETH.  31 

[Enter  Macbeth,  and  a  Servant  with  a  torch. 

Macbeth. 
A  friend. 

Ban. 

What !  sir,  not  yet  at  rest  ?     The  king  's  a-bed : 
He  hath  been  in  unusual  pleasure,  and 
Sent  forth  great  largess  to  your  offices  : 
This  diamond  he  greets  your  wife  withal, 

[Gives  a  ring  to  Macbeth. 

By  the  name  of  most  kind  hostess ;  and  shut  up 
In  measureless  content. 

Macbeth. 

Being  unprepared, 

Our  will  became  the  servant  to  defect ; 
Which  else  should  free  have  wrought. 

Ban. 

All  's  well. —  {Starts  to  go  L.  U.  E. 

I  dreamt  last  night  of  the  three  weird  sisters : 
To  you  they  have  showed  some  truth. 

Macbeth. 

I  think  not  of  them  : 

Yet,  when  we  can  entreat  an  hour  to  serve, 
Would  spend  it  in  some  words  upon  that  business, 
If  you  would  grant  the  time. 

Ban. 
At  your  kind'st  leisure. 

Macbeth. 

If  you  shall  cleave  to  my  consent, —  when  't  is, 
It  shall  make  honour  for  you. 

Ban. 

So  I  lose  none 

In  seeking  to  augment  it,  but  still  keep 
My  bosom  franchised,  and  allegiance  clear, 
I  shall  be  counselled. 


MACBETH. 

Macbeth. 
Good  repose  the  while  ! 

Ban. 
Thanks,  sir  :  the  like  to  you  ! 

{Exeunt  Banquo  and  Fleance. 

Macbeth.  [To  Servant. 

Go,  bid  thy  mistress,  when  my  drink  is  ready, 
She  strike  upon  the  bell. 

{Exit  Servant. — Then,  after  a  brief  pause,  re-entef 
Servant,  who  waits  Macbeth' s  final  commands. 
Get  thee  to  bed.  [  To  Servant. — Exit  Servant. 

Is  this  a  dagger  which  I  see  before  me, 
The  handle  toward  my  hand  ? 
Come,  let  me  clutch  thee :  — 
I  have  thee  not,  and  yet  I  see  thee  still. 
Art  thou  not,  fatal  vision,  sensible 
To  feeling  as  to  sight  ?  or  art  thou  but 
A  dagger  of  the  mind,  a  false  creation, 
Proceeding  from  the  heat-oppressed  brain  ? 
I  see  thee  yet,  in  form  as  palpable 
As  this  which  now  I  draw. 
Thou  marshall'st  me  the  way  that  I  was  going ; 
And  such  an  instrument  I  was  to  use. 
Mine  eyes  are  made  the  fools  o'  the  other  senses, 
Or  else  worth  all  the  rest :  I  see  thee  still ; 
And  on  thy  blade  and  dudgeon  gouts  of  blood, 
Which  was  not  so  before. —  There  's  no  such  thing : 
It  is  the  bloody  business  which  informs 
Thus  to  mine  eyes. —  Now  o'er  the  one  half  world 
Nature  seems  dead,  and  wicked  dreams  abuse 
The  curtained  sleep;  now  witchcraft  celebrates 
Pale  Hecate's  offerings;  and  withered  murder, 
Alarumed  by  his  sentinel,  the  wolf, 
Whose  howl  's  his  watch,  thus  with  his  stealthy  pace, 
With  Tarquin's  ravishing  strides,  towards  his  design 
Moves  like  a  ghost. 
Thou  sure  and  firm-set  earth, 


MACBETH.  33 

Hear  not  my  steps,  which  way  they  walk,  for  fear 

Thy  very  stones  prate  of  my  whereabout, 

And  take  the  present  horror  from  the  time, 

Which  now  suits  with  it.  [A  bell  rings. 

I  go,  and  it  is  done ;  the  bell  invites  me. 

Hear  it  not,  Duncan ;  for  it  is  a  knell 

That  summons  thee  to  heaven  or  to  hell. 

[Exit  Macbeth. — A  low  rumble  of  thunder  is 
heard,  as  Macbeth  goes  out. — Then,  after  a 
pause,  enter  Lady  Macbeth. 

Lady  M. 

That  which  hath  made  them  drunk  hath  made  me  bold ; 

What  hath  quenched  them  hath  given  me  fire. — 

Hark!— Peace! 

It  was  the  owl  that  shrieked,  the  fatal  bellman 

Which  gives  the  stern'st  good-night. 

He  is  about  it: 

The  doors  are  open ;  and  the  surfeited  grooms 

Do  mock  their  charge  with  snores : 

I  have  drugged  their  possets, 

That  death  and  nature  do  contend  about  them, 

Whether  they  live  or  die.  [Distant  Thunder. 

A  Voice.  [Within. 

[  This  line  is  spoken  within,  by  one  of  the  drunken 
chamberlains. 

Who  's  there  ?  what,  ho ! 

Lady  M. 

Alack,  I  am  afraid  they  have  awaked, 
And  't  is  not  done : — the  attempt  and  not  the  deed 
Confounds  us. —  Hark !  I  laid  their  daggers  ready ; 
He  could  not  miss  them. —  Had  he  not  resembled 
My  father  as  he  slept,  I  had  done  't. 

[Re-enter  Macbeth.     In  his  fright  and  frenzy,  he 
makes  as  if  to  stab  her. 

My  husband  ! 
'  3 


34  MACBETH. 

Macbeth. 
I  have  done  the  deed. —  Didst  thou  not  hear  a  noise  ? 

Lady  M. 

I  heard  the  owl  scream  and  the  crickets  cry. 
Did  not  you  speak  ? 

Macbeth. 
When? 

Lady  M. 
Now. 

Macbeth. 
As  I  descended  ? 

Lady  M. 
Ay.  [Distant  thunder 

Macbeth. 
Hark!  — 
Who  lies  i'  the  second  chamber  ? 

Lady  M. 
Donalbain. 

Macbeth. 

[Looking  on   his  hands,  which  are  blood-stained, 
and  in  one  of  which  he  grasps  two  blood-stained 
daggers. 
This  is  a  sorry  sight. 

Lady  M. 
A  foolish  thought,  to  say  a  sorry  sight. 

Macbeth. 

There  's  one  did  laugh  in 's  sleep,  and  one  cried  "  Murder ! " 
That  they  did  wake  each  other;  I  stood  and  heard  them: 
But  they  did  say  their  prayers,  and  addressed  them 
Again  to  sleep. 

Lady  M. 
There  are  two  lodged  together. 


MACBETH.  35 

Macbeth. 

One  cried,  "  God  bless  us  I"  and  "  Amen,"  the  other; 
As  they  had  seen  me  with  these  hangman's  hands. 
Listening  their  fear,  I  could  not  say  "  Amen," 
When  they  did  say,  "  God  bless  us." 

Lady  M. 
Consider  it  not  so  deeply. 

Macbeth. 

But  wherefore  could  not  I  pronounce  "Amen"  ? 
I  had  most  need  of  blessing,  and  "Amen  " 
Stuck  in  my  throat.  [Low  thunder. 

Lady  M. 

These  deeds  must  not  be  thought 

After  these  ways ;  so,  it  will  make  us  mad. 

Macbeth. 

Methought  I  heard  a  voice  cry,  "  Sleep  no  more ! 
Macbeth  does  murder  sleep," — the  innocent  sleep, 
Sleep  that  knits  up  the  ravelled  sleave  of  care, 
The  death  of  each  day's  life,  sore  labour's  bath, 
Balm  of  hurt  minds,  great  nature's  second  course, 
Chief  nourisher  in  life's  feast 

Lady  M. 
What  do  you  mean  ? 

Macbeth. 

Still  it  cried,  "  Sleep  no  more  ! "  to  all  the  house  : 
"  Glamis  hath  murdered  sleep,  and  therefore  Cawdor 
Shall  sleep  no  more, —  Macbeth  shall  sleep  no  more ! " 

[Low  thunder. 
Lady  M. 

Who  was  it  that  thus  cried  ?     Why,  worthy  thane, 
You  do  unbend  your  noble  strength,  to  think 
So  brain-sickly  of  things. —  Go,  get  some  water, 
And  wash  this  filthy  witness  from  your  hand. — 

[Seeing  the  daggers. 


36  MACBETH. 

Why  did  you  bring  these  daggers  from  the  place  ? 
They  must  lie  there:  go  carry  them;  and  smear 
The  sleepy  grooms  with  blood. 

Macbeth. 
I  '11  go  no  more : 

I  am  afraid  to  think  what  I  have  done ; 
Look  on  't  again  I  dare  not. 

Lady  M. 

[Snatching  the  daggers  from  his  hand. 
Infirm  of  purpose ! 

Give  me  the  daggers :  the  sleeping  and  the  dead 
Are  but  as  pictures :  't  is  the  eye  of  childhood 
That  fears  a  painted  devil.     If  he  do  bleed, 
I  '11  gild  the  faces  of  the  grooms  withal ; 
For  it  must  seem  their  guilt. 

[Exit  Lady  Macbeth  into  Duncan's  chamber. — 
Low  thunder. — A  long  pause  :  then  sharp  and 
quick  knocking  is  heard. 

Macbeth. 

Whence  is  that  knocking  ? 

How  is  't  with  me,  when  every  noise  appals  me  ? 

What  hands  are  here  ?  ha  !  they  pluck  out  mine  eyes! 

Will  all  great  Neptune's  ocean  wash  this  blood 

Clean  from  my  hand  ?     No ;  this  my  hand  will  rather 

The  multitudinous  seas  incarnadine, 

Making  the  green — one  red. 

\Re-enter  Lady  Macbeth- 
Lady  M. 

My  hands  are  of  your  colour ;  but  I  shame 

To  wear  a  heart  so  white.  [Knocking. 

I  hear  a  knocking 

At  the  south  entry: — retire  we  to  our  chamber: 

A  little  water  clears  us  of  this  deed : 

How  easy  is  it,  then  !     Your  constancy 

Hath  left  you  unattended.  \Knocking. 

Hark!  more  knocking : 


MACBETH.  37 

Get  on  your  night-gown,  lest  occasion  call  us, 

And  show  us  to  be  watchers :  —  [  Thunder, 

Be  not  lost  so  poorly  in  your  thoughts ! 

Macbeth. 

To  know  my  deed,  't  were  best  not  know  myself. 

[Knocking. 

Wake   Duncan   with   thy   knocking !      I   would   thou 
couldst ! 

[Exeunt  Macbeth  and  Lady  Macbeth. 

[Enter  a  Porter,  with  lanthorn  and  keys. — Knock- 
ing heard. 

Port. 

Here  's  a  knocking  indeed !  If  a  man  were  porter  of 
hell-gate,  he  should  have  old  turning  the  key. —  [Knocking.] 
Knock,  knock,  knock !  Who  's  there,  i'  the  name  of  Beel- 
zebub ?  Here  's  a  farmer,  that  hanged  himself  on  the 
expectation  of  plenty :  come  in  time ;  have  napkins  enow 
about  you;  here  you  '11  sweat  for  't. —  [Knocking.]  Knock, 
knock !  Who  's  there,  in  the  other  devil's  name  ?  Faith, 
here  's  an  equivocator,  that  could  swear  in  both  the  scales 
against  either  scale ;  who  committed  treason  enough  for 
God's  sake,  yet  could  not  equivocate  to  heaven ;  oh,  come 
in,  equivocator. —  [Knocking.}  Knock,  knock,  knock! 
Who  's  there  ?  Faith,  here  's  an  English  tailor  come 
hither,  for  stealing  out  of  a  French  hose :  come  in,  tailor ; 
here  you  may  roast  your  goose. —  [Knocking.}  Knock, 
knock ;  never  at  quiet !  What  are  you  ? — But  this  place 
is  too  cold  for  hell.  I  '11  devil-porter  it  no  further.  I  had 
thought  to  have  let  in  some  of  all  professions,  that  go 
the  primrose  way  to  the  everlasting  bonfire.  [Knocking.] 
Anon,  anon !  I  pray  you,  remember  the  porter. 

f  Porter  opens  the  gate. 

\Enter  Mac dtiff  and  Lennox  c. 

Macduff. 

Was  it  so  late,  friend,  ere  you  went  to  bed, 
That  you  do  lie  so  late  ? 


38  MACBETH. 

Port. 
Faith,  sir,  we  were  carousing  till  the  second  cock. 

Macduff, 
I  believe  drink  gave  thee  the  lie  last  night. 

Port. 
That  it  did,  sir,  i'  the  very  throat  on  me. 

Macduff. 

Is  thy  master  stirring  ?  —        [Looking  off,  he  sees  Macbeth. 
Our  knocking  has  awaked  him;  here  he  comes. 

[Exit  Porter.      Enter  Macbeth,  hurriedly,   and 
half  dressed. 

Len. 
Good-morrow,  noble  sir. 

Macbeth. 
Good-morrow,  both. 

Macdujf. 
Is  the  king  stirring,  worthy  thane  ? 

Macbeth. 
Not  yet. 

Macduff. 

He  did  command  me  to  call  timely  on  him : 
I  have  almost  slipped  the  hour. 

Macbeth. 
I  '11  bring  you  to  him. 

Macduff. 

I  know  this  is  a  joyful  trouble  to  you ; 
But  yet 't  is  one. 

Macbeth. 

The  labour  we  delight  in  physics  pain. 

This  is  the  door.  [Indicates  the  door  by  a  gesture. 


MACBETH.  39 

Macduff. 

I  '11  make  so  bold  to  call, 

For  't  is  my  limited  service.  [Exit. 

Len. 
Goes  the  king  hence  to-day  ? 

Macbeth. 
He  does: — he  did  appoint  so. 

Len. 

The  night  has  been  unruly :  where  we  lay 

Our  chimneys  were  blown  down;  and,  as  they  say,. 

Lamentings  heard  i'  the  air;  strange  screams  of  death 

And  prophesying,  with  accents  terrible, 

Of  dire  combustion  and  confused  events 

New  hatched  to  the  woeful  time :  the  obscure  bird 

Clamoured  the  livelong  night :  some  say,  the  earth 

Was  feverous  and  did  shake. 

Macbeth. 
'T  was  a  rough  night. 

Len. 

My  young  remembrance  cannot  parallel 
A  fellow  to  it. 

\Re-enter  Macduff. 
Macdujf. 

O,  horror,  horror,  horror !     Tongue  nor  heart 
Cannot  conceive  nor  name  thee  1 

Macbeth  and  Len. 
What 's  the  matter  ? 

Macduff. 

Confusion  now  hath  made  his  master-piece ! 
Most  sacrilegious  murder  hath  broke  ope 
The  Lord's  anointed  temple,  and  stole  thence 
The  life  o'  the  building ! 


40  MACBETH. 

Macbeth. 
What  is  't  you  say  ?  the  life  ? 

Len. 
Mean  you  his  majesty  ? 

Macduff. 

Approach  the  chamber,  and  destroy  your  sight 
\V  ith  a  new  Gorgon  :  —  do  not  bid  me  speak ; 
See,  and  then  speak  yourselves. 

{Exeunt  Macbeth  and  Lennox,  and  enter  Seyton 
in  disordered  dress. 

Awake,  awake ! — 

Ring  the  alarum-bell : — murder  and  treason ! — [Exit  Seyton. 

Banquo  and  Donalbain !  Malcolm !  awake ! 

Shake  off  this  downy  sleep,  death's  counterfeit, 

And  look  on  death  itself!  up,  up,  and  see 

The  great  doom's  image !     Malcolm !  Banquo ! 

As  from  your  graves  rise  up,  and  walk  like  sprites, 

To  countenance  this  horror !  [Alarm-bell  rings. 

[Enter  Banquo  and  others,  from  all  sides  ;  all  in 
disordered  dress. 

O,  Banquo,  Banquo,  . 

Our  royal  master  's  murdered ! 

All. 
Murdered ! 

\Re-enter  Macbeth  and  Lennox  R.  i.  E. 

Macbeth. 

Had  I  but  died  an  hour  before  this  chance 

I  had  lived  a  blessed  time ;  for,  from  this  instant, 

There  's  nothing  serious  in  mortality : 

All  is  but  toys :  renown  and  grace  is  dead ; 

The  wine  of  life  is  drawn,  and  the  mere  lees 

Is  left  this  vault  to  brag  of. 


MACBETH.  41 

[Enter  Malcolm  and  Donalbain  R.  2.  E. 

Don. 
What  is  amiss  ? 

Macbeth. 

You  are,  and  do  not  know  't : 

The  spring,  the  head,  the  fountain  of  your  blood 

Is  stopped, —  the  very  source  of  it  is  stopped 


Macduff. 
Your  royal  father  's  murdered. 

Mai. 
0,  by  whom  ? 

Len. 
Those  of  his  chamber,  as  it  seemed,  had  done  't : 

\Exit  Malcolm   and  Donalbain    into    Duncan's 
chamber. 

Their  hands  and  faces  were  all  badged  with  blood ; 
So  were  their  daggers,  which,  unwiped,  we  found 
Upon  their  pillows : 

They  stared,  and  were  distracted ;  no  man's  life 
Was  to  be  trusted  with  them. 

Macbeth. 

O,  yet  I  do  repent  me  of  my  fury, 
That  I  did  kill  them. 

Macduff. 
Wherefore  did  you  so  ? 

Macbeth. 

Who  can  be  wise,  amazed,  temperate,  and  furious, 

I  ,oyal  and  neutral,  in  a  moment  ?     No  man  : 

The  expedition  of  my  violent  love 

Outran  the  pauser,  reason.     Here  lay  Duncan, 

His  silver  skin  laced  with  his  golden  blood ; 

And  his  gashed  stabs  looked  like  a  breach  in  nature 

For  ruin's  wasteful  entrance :  there,  the  murderers, 


42  MACBETH. 

Steeped  in  the  colours  of  their  trade,  their  daggers 
Unmannerly  breeched  with  gore :  who  could  refrain, 
That  had  a  heart  to  love,  and  in  that  heart 
Courage  to  make  his  love  known  ? 

Ban. 

Fears  and  scruples  shake  us  : 

In  the  great  hand  of  God  I  stand ;  and  thence 

Against  the  undivulged  pretence  I  fight 

Of  treasonous  malice. 

Macduff. 
And  so  do  I. 

AIL 
So  all. 

Macbeth. 

Let 's  meet  i'  the  hall  together, 
To  question  this  most  bloody  piece  of  work, 
To  know  it  further. 

All. 
Well  contented. 

CURTAIN. 


C  FORRES.     A  ROOM  IN  THE  ROYAL  PAL- 
.first  J      ACE*     LENNOX,   ROSSE,  SEYTON,  BAN- 
I      QUO,   FLEANCE,   LORDS,   LADIES,  AND 
£      ATTENDANTS,  DISCOVERED. 

\Banquo  advances. 

Ban.  [Aside,  in  soliloquy. 

Thou  hast  it  now, — king,  Cawdor,  Glamis,  all, 

As  the  weird  women  promised ;  and,  I  fear, 

Thou  playedst  most  foully  for  't :  yet  it  was  said 

It  should  not  stand  in  thy  posterity ; 

But  that  myself  should  be  the  root  and  father 

Of  many  kings.     If  there  come  truth  from  them 

(As  upon  thee,  Macbeth,  their  speeches  shine), 

Why,  by  the  verities  on  thee  made  good, 

May  they  not  be  my  oracles  as  well, 

And  set  me  up  in  hope  ?  [ March. 

But,  hush;  no  more. 

[Enter  Macbeth,  as  King  ;  Lady  Macbeth,  as  Queen 
— with  Attendants. 

Macbeth. 

Here  's  our  chief  guest.  [Indicating  Banquo. 

Lady  M. 

If  he  had  been  forgotten, 

It  had  been  as  a  gap  in  our  great  feast, 

And  all-thing  unbecoming. 

Macbeth. 

To-night  we  hold  a  solemn  supper,  sir,  [  To  Banquo. 

And  I  '11  request  your  presence. 


44  MACBETH. 

Ban. 

Let  your  highness 

Command  upon  me ;  to  the  which  my  duties 
Are  with  a  most  indissoluble  tie 
Forever  knit. 

Macbeth. 
Ride  you  this  afternoon  ? 

Ban. 
Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Macbeth. 

We  should  have  else  desired  your  good  advice 
(Which  still  hath  been  both  grave  and  prosperous) 
In  this  day's  council ;  but  we  '11  take  to-morrow. 
Is  't  far  you  ride  ? 

Ban. 

As  far,  my  lord,  as  will  fill  up  the  time 

'Twixt  this  and  supper;  go  not  my  horse  the  better, 

I  must  become  a  borrower  of  the  night 

For  a  dark  hour  or  twain. 

Macbeth. 
Fail  not  our  feast. 

Ban. 
My  lord,  I  will  not. 

Macbeth. 

We  hear  our  bloody  cousins  are  bestowed 

In  England  and  in  Ireland ;  not  confessing 

Their  cruel  parricide,  filling  their  hearers 

With  strange  invention, 

\Lady  Macbeth,  turning  fi-vn   her    ladies, 

whom,  apparently,  she  has  been  engaged,  takct 
his  hand,  to  stop  his  further  reference  to  this 
subject. 

But  of  that  to-morrow ; 


MACBETH.  45 

When  therewithal  we  shall  have  cause  of  state 
Craving  us  jointly.     Hie  you  to  horse :  adieu, 

[Banquo  and  Fleance  cross  to  L. — Fleance  pauses, 
to  kiss  the  hand  which  Macbeth  extends  to  him. 
Till  you  return  at  night.     Goes  Fleance  with  you  ? 

Ban. 
Ay,  my  good  lord :  our  time  does  call  upon  us. 

Macbeth. 

I  wish  your  horses  swift  and  sure  of  foot ; 

And  so  I  do  commend  you  to  their  backs. 

Farewell. —  {Exeunt  Banquo  and  Fleance. 

Let  every  man  be  master  of  his  time 

Till  seven  at  night :  to  make  society 

The  sweeter  welcome,  we  will  keep  ourself 

Till  supper-time  alone :  while  then,  God  be  with  you  ! 

{Exeunt  Lady  Macbeth,  Lennox,  Rosse,  Lords, 
Ladies,  etc.,  separately. — Seyton  alone  remains. 
Sirrah,  a  word  with  you  :  attend  those  men       [  To  Seyton. 
Our  pleasure  ? 

Sey. 

They  are,  my  lord,  without  the  palace-gate. 

Macbeth. 

Bring  them  before  us.  [Exit  Seyton. 

To  be  thus  is  nothing ; 
But  to  be  safely  thus  : — our  fears  in  Banquo 
Stick  deep ;  and  in  his  royalty  of  nature 
Reigns  that  which  would  be  feared :  't  is  much  he  dares. 
He  chid  the  sisters, 

When  first  they  put  the  name  of  king  upon  me, 
And  bade  them  speak  to  him ;  then,  prophet-like, 
They  hailed  him  father  to  a  line  of  kings : 
Upon  my  head  they  placed  a  fruitless  crown, 
And  put  a  barren  sceptre  in  my  gripe, 
Thence  to  be  wrenched  with  an  unlineal  hand, 
No  son  of  mine  succeeding.     If 't  be  so, 
For  Banquo's  issue  have  I  filed  my  mind ; 


46  MACBETH. 

For  them  the  gracious  Duncan  have  I  murdered ; 

Put  rancours  in  the  vessel  of  my  peace 

Only  for  them ;  and  mine  eternal  jewel 

Given  to  the  common  enemy  of  man, 

To  make  them  kings,  the  seed  of  Banquo  kings ! 

Rather  than  so,  come,  fate,  into  the  list, 

And  champion  me  to  the  utterance. — 

Who  's  there  ?  [Re-enter  Seyton,  with  two  Murderers. 

Now,  go  to  the  door,  and  stay  there  till  we  call. 

[  To  Seyton. — Exit  Seyton. 
Was  it  not  yesterday  we  spoke  together  ? 

[  To  the  Murderers. 

First  Mur. 
It  was,  so  please  your  highness. 

Macbeth. 
Well  then,  now, 

Have  you  considered  of  my  speeches  ? 
Are  you  so  gospelled, 

To  pray  for  this  good  man  and  for  his  issue, 
Whose  heavy  hand  hath  bowed  you  to  the  grave, 
And  beggared  yours  for  ever  ? 

Second  Mur. 
I  am  one,  my  liege, 

Whom  the  vile  blows  and  buffets  of  the  world 
Have  so  incensed,  that  I  am  reckless  what 
I  do  to  spite  the  world. 

First  Mur. 
And  I  another, 

So  weary  with  disasters,  tugged  with  fortune, 
That  I  would  set  my  life  on  any  chance, 
To  mend  it,  or  be  rid  on  't. 

Macbeth. 
Both  of  you 
Know  Banquo  was  your  enemy. 


MACBETH.  47 

Both  Mur. 
True,  ray  lord. 

Macbeth. 

So  is  he  mine ;  and  in  such  bloody  distance, 
That  every  minute  of  his  being  thrusts 
Against  my  near'st  of  life  :  and  though  I  could 
With  barefaced  power  sweep  him  from  my  sight 
And  bid  my  will  avouch  it,  yet  I  must  not, 
For  sundry  weighty  reasons. 

Second  Mur. 

We  shall,  my  lord, 

Perform  what  you  command  us. 

First  Mur. 
Though  our  lives 

Macbeth. 

Your  spirits  shine  through  you.     Within  this  hour  at  most, 

I  will  advise  you  where  to  plant  yourselves ; 

Acquaint  you  with  the  perfect  spy  o'  the  time, 

The  moment  on  't ;  for  't  must  be  done  to-night, 

And  something  from  the  palace ;  always  thought 

That  I  require  a  clearness :  and  with  him 

(To  leave  no  rubs  nor  botches  in  the  work) 

Fleance  his  son,  that  keeps  him  company, 

Whose  absence  is  no  less  material  to  me 

Than  is  his  father's,  must  embrace  the  fate 

Of  that  dark  hour. 

[  The  Murderers  glance  at  each  other. 
Resolve  yourselves  apart : 
I  '11  come  to  you  anon. 

Both  Mur. 
We  are  resolved,  my  lord. 


48  MACBETH. 

Macbeth. 

I  '11  call  upon  you  straight :  abide  within. 

{Exeunt  Murderers  L. 

It  is  concluded :  —  Banquo,  thy  soul's  flight, 
If  it  find  heaven,  must  find  it  out  to-night. 

[Exit  Macbeth. 


FORRES.  ANOTHER  ROOM  IN  THE  ROYAL 


[Enter  Lady  Macbeth  and  Seyton. 

Lady  M. 
Is  Banquo  gone  from  court  ? 

Sey. 
Ay,  madam,  but  returns  again  to-night. 

Lady  M. 

Say  to  the  king,  I  would  attend  his  leisure 
For  a  few  words. 

Sey. 

Madam,  I  will.  [Exit  Seyton  L. 

Lady  M. 

Naught  's  had,  all  's  spent, 
Where  our  desire  is  got  without  content  : 
'T  is  safer  to  be  that  which  we  destroy, 
Than,  by  destruction,  dwell  in  doubtful  joy. 

[Enter  Macbeth  L, 

How  now,  my  lord  !  why  do  you  keep  alone, 
Of  sorriest  fancies  your  companions  making  ; 
Using  those  thoughts  which  should  indeed  have  died 
With  them  they  think  on  ?     Things  without  remedy 
Should  be  without  regard  :  what  's  done  is  done. 


MACBETH.  49 

Macbeth. 

We  have  scotched  the  snake,  not  killed  it : 

She  '11  close,  and  be  herself;  whilst  our  poor  malice 

Remains  in  danger  of  her  former  tooth. 

But  let  the  frame  of  things  disjoint, 

Both  the  worlds  suffer, 

Ere  we  will  eat  our  meal  in  fear,  and  sleep 

In  the  affliction  of  these  terrible  dreams 

That  shake  us  nightly  :  better  be  with  the  dead, 

Whom  we,  to  gain  our  place,  have  sent  to  peace, 

[  The  plural  is  liere  used  in  the  personal  and  affec- 
tionate sense,  and  not  in  the  royal  manner :  and 
this,  among  other  kindred  speeches,  should  indi- 
cate the  love  that  Macbeth  feels  for  his  wife. 

Than  on  the  torture  of  the  mind  to  lie 

In  restless  ecstasy.     Duncan  is  in  his  grave ; 

After  life's  fitful  fever  he  sleeps  well ; 

Treason  has  done  his  worst :  nor  steel,  nor  poison, 

Malice  domestic,  foreign  levy,  nothing, 

Can  touch  him  further. 

Lady  M. 

Come  on ; 

Gentle  my  lord,  sleek  o'er  your  rugged  looks ; 

Be  bright  and  jovial  'mong  your  guests  to-night. 

Macbeth. 

O,  full  of  scorpions  is  my  mind,  dear  wife ! 
Thou  know'st  that  Banquo  and  his  Fleance  live. 

Lady  M. 
But  in  them  nature's  copy  's  not  eterne. 

Macbeth. 

There  's  comfort  yet ;  they  are  assailable ; 
Then  be  thou  jocund :  ere  the  bat  hath  flown 
His  cloistered  flight ;  ere,  to  black  Hecate's  summons, 
The  shard-borne  beetle,  with  his  drowsy  hums, 
Hath  rung  night's  yawning  peal,  there  shall  be  done 
A  deed  of  dreadful  note. 
4 


50  MACBETH. 

Lady  M. 
What 's  to  be  done  ? 

Macbeth, 

Be  innocent  of  the  knowledge,  dearest  chuck, 

Till  thou  applaud  the  deed. —  Come,  seeling  night, 

Scarf  up  the  tender  eye  of  pitiful  day ; 

And  with  thy  bloody  and  invisible  hand 

Cancel  and  tear  to  pieces  that  great  bond 

Which  keeps  me  pale !  —  Light  thickens ;  and  the  crow 

Makes  wing  to  the  rooky  wood : 

Good  things  of  day  begin  to  droop  and  drowse; 

Whiles  night's  black  agents  to  their  prey  do  rouse. — 

Thou  marvell'st  at  my  words :  but  hold  thee  still ; 

Things  bad  begun  make  strong  themselves  by  ill : 

So  pr*ythee,  go  with  me.  {Exeunt  R. — Scene  changes. 


FORRES.     A  ROOM   OF  STATE   IN  THE 
ROYAL    PALACE.      A   BANQUET   Dis- 
kette C&trt.  \      PLAYED.     MACBETH,  LADY  MACBETH, 
ROSSE,  LENNOX,  LORDS,  AND  ATTEND- 
ANTS, DISCOVERED. 

Macbeth. 

You  know  your  own  degrees  :  sit  down :  at  first 
And  last  the  hearty  welcome. 

Lords. 
Thanks  to  your  majesty.  [All  sit. 

Macbeth. 

Ourself  will  mingle  with  society,       [Descends  from  throne. 

And  play  the  humble  host. 

Our  hostess  keeps  her  state ;  but,  in  best  time, 

We  will  require  her  welcome. 


MACBETH.  5 1 

Lady  M.  [On  throne. 

Pronounce  it  for  me,  sir,  to  all  our  friends ; 
For  my  heart  speaks  they  are  welcome. 

[All  rise  and  bow. — Then,  all  re-seat  themselves, 
except  Rosse  and  Lennox,  who  go  to  Lady 
Macbeth. 

Macbeth. 

See,  they  encounter  thee  with  their  hearts'  thanks. — 

Both  sides  are  even :  here  I  '11  sit  i'  the  midst : 

[Enter  First  Murderer  c.  with  the  Servants,  who 
bring  dishes. — First  Murderer  has  a  few  drops 
of  blood  upon  his  cheek.  —  He  brings  a  goblet 
of  ivine  to  Macbeth. 

Be  large  in  mirth ;  anon  we  '11  drink  a  measure 

The  table  round.  — 

There  's  blood  upon  thy  face.  [To  Murderer. 

Mur. 
'T  is  Banquo's,  then.  [Kneels  at  L.  of  Macbeth, 

Macbeth. 
Is  he  despatched  ? 

Mur. 

My  lord,  his  throat  is  cut ;  that  I  did  for  him. 

Macbeth. 

Thou  art  the  best  o'  the  cut-throats :  yet  he  's  good 
That  did  the  like  for  Fleance. 

Mur. 

Most  royal  sir, 
Fleance  is  'scaped. 

Macbeth. 

Then  comes  my  fit  again  :  I  had  else  been  perfect ; 

Whole  as  the  marble,  founded  as  the  rock ; 

As  broad  and  general  as  the  casing  air : 

But  now  I  am  cabined,  cribbed,  confined,  bound  in 

To  saucy  doubts  and  fears.     But  Banquo's  safe  ? 


52  MACBETH. 

Mur. 

Ay,  my  good  lord :  safe  in  a  ditch  he  bides, 
With  twenty  trenched  gashes  on  his  head ; 
The  least  a  death  to  nature. 

Macbeth. 

Thanks  for  that : 

There  the  grown  serpent  lies ;  the  worm,  that 's  fled, 

Hath  nature  that  in  time  will  venom  breed, 

No  teeth  for  the  present. 

[7s  about  to  drink  ;  but  the  colour  of  the  wine  sick- 
ens him,  and  he  gives  the  goblet  back  to  the 
Murderer,  who  places  it  on  the  table,  and,  at 
Macbettis  next  words,  spoken  simultaneously 
with  this  action,  quietly  slinks  out  of  the  room. 

Get  thee  gone  :  to-morrow 

We  '11  hear — ourselves  again.  \Exit  Murderer. 

Lady  M. 
My  royal  lord, 

You  do  not  give  the  cheer :  the  feast  is  sold 
That  is  not  often  vouched,  while  't  is  a  making, 
'T  is  given  with  welcome :  to  feed  were  best  at  home ; 
From  thence  the  sauce  to  meat  is  ceremony ; 
Meeting  were  bare  without  it. 

Macbeth. 

Sweet  remembrancer !  — 
Now,  good  digestion  wait  on  appetite, 
And  health  on  both  !  [To  all. 

Len. 

May  't  please  your  highness  sit. 

Macbeth. 

Here  had  we  now  our  country's  honour  roofed, 
Were  the  graced  person  of  our  Banquo  present ; 
Who  may  I  rather  challenge  for  unkindness 
Than  pity  for  mischance  ! 


MACBETH.  53 

Rosse. 

His  absence,  sir, 

Lays  blame  upon  his  promise.     Please  it  your  highness 
To  grace  us  with  your  royal  company. 

[Macbeth  stares,  in  horror. 
Len. 

What  is  't  that  moves  your  highness  ? 

Macbeth. 
Which  of  you  have  done  this  ? 

Lords. 
What,  my  good  lord  ? 

Macbeth. 

Thou  canst  not  say  I  did  it :  never  shake 
Thy  gory  locks  at  me. 

Rosse. 

Gentlemen,  rise;  his  highness  is  not  well.  [A II rise. 

Lady  M. 

Sit,  worthy  friends : — my  lord  is  often  thus,  {All sit. 

And  hath  been  from  his  youth ;  pray  you,  keep  seat ; 

The  fit  is  momentary ;  upon  a  thought 

He  will  again  be  well :  if  much  you  note  him, 

You  shall  offend  him,  and  extend  his  passion : 

Feed,  and  regard  him  not.  — 

[  Guests  endeavour  not  to  notice  what  follows. 
Are  you  a  man  ?  [To  Macbeth. 

Macbeth. 

Ay,  and  a  bold  one,  that  dare  look  on  that 
Which  might  appal  the  devil. 

Lady  M. 
O,  proper  stuff! 

This  is  the  very  painting  of  your  fear : 
This  is  the  air-drawn  dagger  which,  you  said, 
Led  you  to  Duncan.     O,  these  flaws  and  starts 


54  MACBETH. 

(Impostors  to  true  fear)  would  well  become 

A  woman's  story  at  a  winter's  fire, 

Authorized  by  her  grandam.     Shame  itself! 

Why  do  you  make  such  faces  ?     When  all  's  done, 

You  look  but  on  a  stool. 

Macbeth. 

Pr'ythee,  see  there !  behold!  look!  lo!  how  say  you?  — 

[S fares  at  imaginary  spectre. 

Why,  what  care  I  ?     If  thou  canst  nod,  speak  too.  — 
If  charnel-houses  and  our  graves  must  send 
Those  that  we  bury  back,  our  monuments 
Shall  be  the  maws  of  kites.  [Sinks  on  her  bosom. 

Lady  M. 
What !  quite  unmanned  in  folly  ? 

Macbeth. 
If  I  stand  here,  I  saw  him. 

Lady  M. 
Fie,  for  shame ! 

[Lady  Macbeth  goes  among  the  guests,  and  presently 
ascends  the  throne. 

Macbeth.  [Aside. 

Blood  hath  been  shed  ere  now ;  i'  the  olden  time, 
Ere  human  statute  purged  the  gentle  weal ; 
Ay,  and  since,  too,  murders  have  been  performed, 
Too  terrible  for  the  ear :  the  times  have  been, 
That,  when  the  brains  were  out,  the  man  would  die, 
And  there  an  end ;  but  now  they  rise  again, 
With  twenty  mortal  murders  on  their  crowns, 
And  push  us  from  our  stools :  this  is  more  strange 
Than  such  a  murder  is. 

Lady  M. 
My  worthy  lord, 
Your  noble  friends  do  lack  you. 


MACBETH.  55 

Macbeth. 
I  do  forget :  — 

Do  not  muse  at  me,  my  most  worthy  friends ; 
I  have  a  strange  infirmity,  which  is  nothing 
To  those  that  know  me.     Come,  love  and  health  to  all ; 
Then  I  '11  sit  down. —  Give  me  some  wine ;  fill  full  : 
I  drink  to  the  general  joy  o'  the  whole  table, 
And  to  our  dear  friend  Banquo,  whom  we  miss ; 
Would  he  were  here !  to  all,  and  him,  we  thirst, 
And  all  to  all.  [Stares  at  chair. 

Avaunt !  and  quit  my  sight !  let  the  earth  hide  thee ! 
Thy  bones  are  marrowless,  thy  blood  is  cold ; 
Thou  hast  no  speculation  in  those  eyes 
Which  thou  dost  glare  with  !  [All  rise. 

Lady  M. 

Think  of  this,  good  peers, 

But  as  a  thing  of  custom;  't  is  no  other; 

Only  it  spoils  the  pleasure  of  the  time. 

Macbeth. 

What  man  dare,  I  dare : 
Approach  thou  like  the  rugged  Russian  bear, 
The  armed  rhinoceros,  or  the  Hyrcan  tiger : 
Take  any  shape  but  that,  and  my  firm  nerves 
Shall  never  tremble :  or  be  alive  again, 
And  dare  me  to  the  desert  with  thy  sword ; 
If  trembling  I  inhabit  then,  protest  me 
The  baby  of  a  girl.     Hence,  horrible  shadow ! 
Unreal  mockery,  hence !          [Spectre  is  supposed  to  vanish. 
Why,  so; — being  gone, 
I  am  a  man  again. 

Lady  M.  [To  Macbeth. 

You  have  displaced  the  mirth,  broke  the  good  meeting, 
With  most  admired  disorder. 

Macbeth. 

Can  such  things  be, 
And  overcome  us  like  a  summer's  cloud, 


56  MACBETH. 

Without  our  special  wonder  ?     You  make  me  strange 

Even  to  the  disposition  that  I  owe, 

When  now  I  think  you  can  behold  such  sights, 

And  keep  the  natural  ruby  of  your  cheeks, 

When  mine  are  blanched  with  fear. 

All. 
What  sights,  my  lord  ? 

[Macbeth  sinks  at  the  foot  of  the  throne. 

Lady  M.  {To  the  Guests. 

I  pray  you,  speak  not ;  he  grows  worse  and  worse ; 

Question  enrages  him  :  at  once,  good-night ; 

Stand  not  upon  the  order  of  your  going, 

But  go  at  once. 

A  kind  good-night  to  all ! 

[Exeunt  all  except  Macbeth  and  Lady  Macbeth. 

[After  dismissing  the  guests,  Lady  Macbeth  turns 
sternly  and  fiercely  to  Macbeth,  but, seeing  him  so 
utterly  crushed,  she  relents,  and  comes,  lovingly 
and  very  gently,  towards  him. 

Macbeth. 

It  will  have  blood ;  they  say,  blood  will  have  blood : 
Stones  have  been  known  to  move,  and  trees  to  speak ; 
Augurs  and  understood  relations  have 
By  magot-pies,  and  choughs,  and  rooks  brought  forth 
The  secret'st  man  of  blood. 

[Lady  Macbeth  places  her  hand  gently    on   his 

shoulder.      At  this  he  starts,  and  seeing  her, 

changes  in  mood  as  he  asks  : 
What  is  the  night  ? 

Lady  M. 

Almost  at  odds  with  morning,  which  is  which. 
Macbeth. 

How  say'st  thou,  that  Macduff  denies  his  person 
At  our  great  bidding  ? 


MACBETH.  57 

Lady  M. 
Did  you  send  to  him,  sir  ? 

Macbeth. 

I  hear  it  by  the  way ;  but  I  will  send ; 

There  's  not  a  one  of  them  but  in  his  house 

I  keep  a  servant  fee'd.     I  will  to-morrow 

(And  betimes  I  will)  to  the  weird  sisters : 

More  shall  they  speak ;  for  now  I  am  bent  to  know, 

By  the  worst  means,  the  worst.     For  mine  own  good 

All  causes  shall  give  way  :  I  am  in  blood 

Stepped  in  so  far,  that,  should  I  wade  no  more, 

Returning  were  as  tedious  as  go  o'er. 

Lady  M. 
You  lack  the  season  of  all  natures,  sleep. 

Macbeth. 
Come,  we  '11  to  sleep. 

[  With  a  look  and  a  tone  of  dreary  and  forlorn 

bitterness. 

My  strange  and  self-abuse 
Is  the  initiate  fear,  that  wants  hard  use :  — 
We  are  yet  but  young  in  deed. 

[As  Macbetti  lifts  his  hand  to  press  his  brow  he 
touches  the  crown.  He  removes  it,  and  gazes 
upon  it  with  looks  of  loathing.  As  he  does 
this,  Lady  Macbeth  gradually  sinks  to  the  floor, 
on  her  knees. 

SLOW  CURTAIN. 


if ourtf), 

(  A  DARK  CAVE.     IN  THE  MIDDLE,  A  CAUL- 
S»tcnc  .first.  <      DRON,  BOILING.   THUNDER.   THE  THREE 
(      WITCHES  DISCOVERED. 

First  Witch. 
Thrice  the  brinded  cat  hath  mewed. 

Second  Witch. 
Thrice;  and  once  the  hedge-pig  whined. 

Third  Witch. 
Harpier  cries : — 't  is  time,  't  is  time. 

First  Witch. 

Round  about  the  cauldron  go ; 
In  the  poisoned  entrails  throw. — 
Toad,  that  under  coldest  stone 
Pays  and  nights  hast  thirty-one 
Sweltered  venom  sleeping  got, 
Boil  thou  first  i'  the  charmed  pot. 

[She  drops  a  substance  into  the  cauldron. 

All. 

[The  Witches  walk  around  the  cauldron,  stirring 
its  contents  with  their  sticks. 

Double,  double  toil  and  trouble; 
Fire,  burn ;  and,  cauldron,  bubble. 

Second  Witch. 
Fillet  of  a  fenny  snake, 
In  the  cauldron  boil  and  bake ; 
Eye  6f  newt,  and  toe  of  frog, 
Wool  of  bat,  and  tongue  of  dog, 


MACBETH.  59 

Adder's  fork,  and  blind-worm's  sting, 
Lizard's  leg,  and  owlet's  wing, — 
For  a  charm  of  powerful  trouble, 
Like  a  hell-broth  boil  and  bubble. 

[Repeats  action  of  First  Witch. 

AIL 

Double,  double  toil  and  trouble ; 

Fire,  burn ;  and,  cauldron,  bubble.         [Business  as  before. 

Third  Witch. 

Scale  of  dragon,  tooth  of  wolf, 
Witches'  mummy,  maw  and  gulf 
Of  the  ravined  salt-sea  shark, 
Root  of  hemlock  digged  i'  the  dark, 
Liver  of  blaspheming  Jew, 
Gall  of  goat,  and  slips  of  yew 
Slivered  in  the  moon's  eclipse; 
Nose  of  Turk,  and  Tartar's  lips;    . 
Finger  of  birth-strangled  babe 
Ditch-delivered  by  a  drab — 
Make  the  gruel  thick  and  slab : 
Add  thereto  a  tiger's  chaudron, 
For  the  ingredients  of  our  cauldron. 

\Repeats  action  of  First  Witch. 

All. 

Double,  double  toil  and  trouble ; 

Fire,  burn ;  and,  cauldron,  bubble.         [Business  as  before. 

Second  Witch. 

Cool  it  with  a  baboon's  blood, 
Then  the  charm  is  firm  and  good. 

[All  crouch  around  cauldron. — A  pause. 
By  the  pricking  of  my  thumbs, 

Something  wicked  this  way  comes  :  —  [Noise  outside. 

Open,  locks, 
Whoever  knocks ! 

[Enter  Macbeth  c.  above. 


60  MACBETH. 

Macbeth. 

How  now,  you  secret,  black,  and  midnight  hags ! 
What  is  't  you  do  ? 

The  Three  Witches. 

A  deed  without  a  name. 

Macbeth. 

I  conjure  you,  by  that  which  you  profess 
(Howe'er  you  come  to  know  it),  answer  me 
To  what  I  ask  you. 

First  Witch. 
Speak. 

Second  Witch. 
Demand. 

Third  Witch. 
We  '11  answer. 

First  Witch. 

Say,  if  thou  'dst  rather  hear  it  from  our  mouths, 
Or  from  our  masters'  ? 

Macbeth. 
Call  them,  let  me  see  them. 

First  Witch. 

Pour  in  sow's  blood,  that  hath  eaten 
Her  nine  farrow ;  grease,  that  's  sweaten 
From  the  murderer's  gibbet,  throw 
Into  the  flame. 

The  Three  Witches. 

Come,  high  or  low ; 

Thyself  and  office  deftly  show ! 

{Thunder.     An  apparition  of  an  armed  head  rises. 
This  head  is  "  made  up  "  to  resemble  Macbeth. 

Macbeth. 
Tell  me,  thou  unknown  power 


MACBETH.  6 1 

First  Witch. 

He  knows  thy  thought: 

Hear  his  speech,  but  say  thou  naught. 

Aft. 

Macbeth !  Macbeth !  Macbeth !  beware  Macduff; 
Beware  the  thane  of  Fife. —  Dismiss  me : — enough. 

Macbeth. 

Whate'er  thou  art,  for  thy  good  caution,  thanks : 

Thou  hast  harped  my  fear  aright :  — but  one  word  more • 

[Apparition  descends. —  Thunder. 

First  Witch. 

He  will  not  be  commanded:  here  's  another, 
More  potent  than  the  first. 

[Thunder. —  An  apparition  of  a  blood-stained  child 
rises. 

App. 

Macbeth !  Macbeth  !  Macbeth  !  — 

Macbeth. 
Had  I  three  ears,  I  'd  hear  thee. 

App. 

Be  bloody — bold — and  resolute ;  laugh  to  scorn 
The  power  of  man,  for  none  of  woman  born 
Shall  harm  Macbeth. 

[Descends. — Thunder. 
Macbeth. 

Then  live,  Macduff:  what  need  I  fear  of  thee  ? 
But  yet  I  '11  make  assurance  double  sure, 
And  take  a  bond  of  fate :  thou  shalt  not  live ; 
That  I  may  tell  pale-hearted  fear  it  lies, 
And  sleep  in  spite  of  thunder. —  What  is  this, 

[Thunder.  An  apparition  of  a  child,  crowned,  with 
a  tree  in  his  hand,  rises. 


62  MACBETH. 

That  rises  like  the  issue  of  a  king, 

And  wears  upon  his  baby  brow  the  round 

And  top  of  sovereignty  ? 

The  Three  Witches. 
Listen,  but  speak  not  to  't. 

App. 

Be  lion-mettled,  proud ;  and  take  no  care 
Who  chafes,  who  frets,  or  where  conspirers  are : 
Macbeth  shall  never  vanquished  be,  until 
Great  Birnam  wood  to  high  Dunsinane  hill 
Shall  come  against  him. 

[Descends. —  Thunder. 

Macbeth. 

That  will  never  be : 

Who  can  impress  the  forest ;  bid  the  tree 
Unfix  his  earth-bound  root  ?     Sweet  bodements !  good ! 
Yet  my  heart 

Throbs  to  know  one  thing :  tell  me  (if  your  art 
Can  tell  so  much),  shall  Banquo's  issue  ever 
Reign  in  this  kingdom  ? 

The  Three  Witches. 

[They  rise  and  go  to  R. 
Seek  to  know  no  more. 

Macbeth. 

I  will  be  satisfied :  deny  me  this, 
And  an  eternal  curse  fall  on  you ! 

[Macbeth  descends  from  rocks.    The  cauldron  sinks. 
Thunder   and  discordant  sounds,  shrieks,  etc., 
are  heard. 
Let  me  know :  — 
WThy  sinks  that  cauldron,  and  what  noise  is  this? 

First  Witch. 
Show  !  [Passing  from  R.  to  L. 


MACBETH.  63 

Second  Witch. 
Show!  [The  same. 

Third  Witch. 
Show!  {The  same. 

The  Three  Witches. 

Show  his  eyes,  and  grieve  his  heart ; 
Come  like  shadows,  so  depart ! 

{Eight  kings  appear,  and  pass  over  in  order ;  the 
last  with  a  glass  in  his  hand ;  JBanquo  follow- 
ing. 

Macbeth.  [As  they  pass. 

Thou  art  too  like  the  spirit  of  Banquo ;  down ! 

Thy  crown  does  sear  mine  eye-balls: — and  thy  hair, 

Thou  other  gold-bound  brow,  is  like  the  first :  — 

A  third  is  like  the  former. —  Filthy  hags ! 

Why  do  you  show  me  this ? — A  fourth  ? — Start,  eyes!  — 

What !  will  the  line  stretch  out  to  the  crack  of  doom  ?  — 

Another  yet  ? — A  seventh  ?  —  I  '11  see  no  more :  — 

And  yet  the  eighth  appears,  who  bears  a  glass 

Which  shows  me  many  more ; 

Horrible  sight !  —  Now,  I  see,  't  is  true ; 

{The  Witches  vanish  as  Banquo  appears. 
For  the  blood-boltered  Banquo  smiles  upon  me, 
And  points  at  them  for  his. —  What !  is  this  so  ? 
Where  are  they  ?     Gone  ?  —  Let  this  pernicious  hour 
Stand  aye  accursed  in  the  calendar !  — 
Come  in,  without  there !  [Enter  Seyton,  above. 

Sey. 
What 's  your  grace's  will  ? 

Macbeth. 
Saw  you  the  weird  sisters  ? 

Sey. 
No,  my  lord. 

Macbeth. 
Came  they  not  by  you  ? 


64  MACBETH. 

Sey. 
No,  indeed,  my  lord. 

Macbeth. 

Infected  be  the  air  whereon  they  ride ; 

And  damned  all  those  that  trust  them  !  —  I  did  hear 

The  galloping  of  horse :  who  was  't  came  by  ? 

Sey. 

T  is  two  or  three,  my  lord,  that  bring  you  word 
Macduff  is  fled  to  England. 

Macbeth. 
Fled  to  England ! 

Sey. 
Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Macbeth. 

Time,  thou  anticipat'st  my  dread  exploits : 

The  flighty  purpose  never  is  o'ertook 

Unless  the  deed  go  with  it :  from  this  moment 

The  very  firstlings  of  my  heart  shall  be 

The  firstlings  of  my  hand.     And  even  now, 

To  crown  my  thoughts  with  acts,  be  it  thought  and  done : 

The  castle  of  Macduff  I  will  surprise ; 

Seize  upon  Fife ;  give  to  the  edge  o'  the  sword 

His  wife,  his  babes,  and  all  unfortunate  souls 

That  trace  him  in  his  line.     No  boasting  like  a  fool ; 

This  deed  I  '11  do  before  this  purpose  cool : 

But  no  more  sights ! — Where  are  these  gentlemen  ? 

Come,  bring  me  where  they  are.  [Scene  closes, 


&>cene  &ecanto. — A  WOOD  IN  ENGLAND. 

[Enter  Malcolm  and  Macduff, 
Mai 

Let  us  seek  out  some  desolate  shade,  and  there 
Weep  our  sad  bosoms  empty, 


MACBETH.  65 

Macduff. 
Let  us  rather 

Hold  fast  the  mortal  sword ;  and,  like  good  men, 
Bestride  our  down-fallen  birthdom :  each  new  morn 
New  widows  howl ;  new  orphans  cry ;  new  sorrows 
Strike  heaven  on  the  face,  that  it  resounds 
As  if  it  felt  with  Scotland,  and  yelled  out 
Like  syllable  of  dolour. 

Mai. 

What  I  believe,  I  '11  wail ; 
What  know,  believe ;  and  what  I  can  redress, 
As  I  shall  find  the  time  to  friend,  I  will. 
What  you  have  spoke,  it  may  be  so  perchance. 
This  tyrant,  whose  sole  name  blisters  our  tongues, 
Was  once  thought  honest :  you  have  loved  him  well ; 
He  hath  not  touched  you  yet. 
I  am  young ;  but  something 

You  may  discern  of  him  through  me ;  and  wisdom 
To  offer  up  a  weak,  poor,  innocent  lamb 
To  appease  an  angry  god. 

Macduff. 

I  am  not  treacherous. 

Mai. 

But  Macbeth  is. 

A  good  and  virtuous  nature  may  recoil 
In  an  imperial  charge.     But  I  shall  crave  your  pardon ; 
That  which  you  are  my  thoughts  cannot  transpose : 
Angels  are  bright  still,  though  the  brightest  fell : 
Though  all  things  foul  would  wear  the  brows  of  grace, 
Yet  grace  must  still  look  so. 

Macduff. 
I  have  lost  my  hopes. 

Mai. 

Perchance  even  there  where  I  did  find  my  doubts. 
Why  in  that  rawness  left  you  wife  and  child 
(Those  precious  motives,  those  strong  knots  of  love; 

9 


66  MACBETH. 

Without  leave-taking?  —  I  pray  you, 

Let  not  my  jealousies  be  your  dishonours, 

But  mine  own  safeties :  —  You  may  be  rightly  just, 

Whatever  I  shall  think. 

Macduff. 

Bleed,  bleed,  poor  country ! 

Great  tyranny,  lay  thou  thy  basis  sure, 

For  goodness  dare  not  check  thee !  wear  thou  thy  wrongs, 

The  title  is  affeered. —  Fare  thee  well,  lord  : 

I  would  not  be  the  villain  that  thou  think'st 

For  the  whole  space  that 's  in  the  tyrant's  grasp, 

And  the  rich  East  to  boot. 

Mai. 

Be  not  offended : 

I  speak  not  as  in  absolute  fear  of  you. 
I  think  our  country  sinks  beneath  the  yoke; 
It  weeps,  it  bleeds ;  and  each  new  day  a  gash 
Is  added  to  her  wounds :  I  think,  withal, 
There  would  be  hands  uplifted  in  my  right ; 
And  here,  from  gracious  England,  have  I  offer 
Of  goodly  thousands :  but,  for  all  this, 
When  I  shall  tread  upon  the  tyrant's  head, 
Or  wear  it  on  my  sword,  yet  my  poor  country 
Shall  have  more  vices  than  it  had  before; 
More  suffer,  and  more  sundry  ways  than  ever, 
By  him  that  shall  succeed. 

Macduff. 
What  should  he  be  ? 

Mai. 

It  is  myself  I  mean :  in  whom  I  know 

All  the  particulars  of  vice  so  grafted, 

That,  when  they  shall  be  opened,  black  Macbeth 

Will  seem  as  pure  as  snow ;  and  the  poor  state 

Esteem  him  as  a  lamb,  being  compared 

With  my  confineless  harms. 


MACBETH.  67 

Macduff. 

Not  in  the  legions 

Of  horrid  hell  can  come  a  devil  more  damned 
In  evils  to  top  Macbeth. 

Mai. 

I  grant  him  bloody, 
Luxurious,  avaricious,  false,  deceitful, 
Sudden,  malicious,  smacking  of  every  sin 
That  has  a  name :  but  there  's  no  bottom,  none, 
In  my  voluptuousness :  and  my  desire 
All  continent  impediments  would  o'erbear, 
That  did  oppose  my  will :  better  Macbeth, 
Than  such  a  one  to  reign : 
For  had  I  power,  I  should 
Pour  the  sweet  milk  of  concord  into  hell, 
Uproar  the  universal  peace,  confound 
All  unity  on  earth. 

Macduff. 
O,  Scotland,  Scotland ! 

Mai. 

If  such  a  one  be  fit  to  govern,  speak : 
I  am  as  I  have  spoken. 

Macduff. 
Fit  to  govern  ! 

No,  not  to  live.  —  O,  nation  miserable, 
With  an  untitled  tyrant  bloody  sceptered, 
When  shalt  thou  see  thy  wholesome  days  again, 
Since  that  the  truest  issue  of  thy  throne 
By  his  own  interdiction  stands  accursed, 
And  does  blaspheme  his  breed  ? — Thy  royal  father 
Was  a  most  sainted  king  :  the  queen  that  bore  thee, 
Oftener  upon  her  knees  than  on  her  feet, 
Died  every  day  she  lived.     Fare  thee  well ! 
These  evils  thou  repeat'st  upon  thyself 
Have  banished  me  from  Scotland. —  O,  my  breast, 
Thy  hope  ends  here ! 


08  MACBETH. 

Mai. 

Macduff,  this  noble  passion, 

Child  of  integrity,  hath  from  my  soul 

Wiped  the  black  scruples,  reconciled  my  thoughts 

To  thy  good  truth  and  honour.     Devilish  Macbeth 

By  many  of  these  trains  hath  sought  to  win  me 

Into  his  power;  and  modest  wisdom  plucks  me 

From  over-credulous  haste  :  but  God  above 

Deal  between  thee  and  me  !  for  even  now 

I  put  myself  to  thy  direction,  and 

Unspeak  mine  own  detraction  ;  here  abjure 

The  taints  and  blames  I  laid  upon  myself, 

For  strangers  to  my  nature. 

I  scarcely  yet  have  coveted  mine  own  ; 

At  no  time  broke  my  faith  ;  would  not  betray 

The  devil  to  his  fellow  ;  and  delight 

No  less  in  truth  than  life  :  my  first  false  speaking 

Was  this  upon  myself:  —  what  I  am  truly, 

Is  thine,  and  my  poor  country's,  to  command  : 

Whither,  indeed,  before  thy  here-approach, 

Old  Siward,  with  ten  thousand  warlike  men, 

Already  at  a  point,  was  setting  forth  : 

Now  we  '11  together  ;  and  the  chance  of  goodness 

Be  like  our  warranted  quarrel  !     Why  are  you  silent  ? 


Such  welcome  and  unwelcome  things  at  once 
'T  is  hard  to  reconcile. 
See,  who  comes  here  ? 

Mai. 

My  countryman  ;  but  yet  I  know  him  not. 

[Enter  Rosse. 
Macduff. 

My  ever-gentle  cousin,  welcome  hither. 

Mai. 

I  know  him  now  :  —  good  God,  betimes  remove 
The  means  that  make  us  strangers  ! 


MACBETH.  69 

£0$3e. 

Sir,  Amen. 

Macduff. 

Stands  Scotland  where  it  did  ? 

Rosse. 

Alas  !  poor  country, — 
Almos-i:  afraid  to  know  itsdf !     It  cannot 
Be  called  our  mother,  but  our  grave :  where  nothing, 
But  who  knows  nothing,  is  once  seen  to  smile ; 
Where  sighs,  and  groans,  and  shrieks  that  rend  the  air, 
Are  made,  not  marked  :  where  violent  sorrow  seems 
A  modern  ecstasy :  the  dead  man's  knell 
Is  there  scarce  asked  for  who ;  and  good  men's  lives 
Expire  before  the  flowers  in  their  caps, 
Dying  or  ere  they  sicken. 

Macduff. 
O,  relation 
Too  nice,  and  yet  too  true ! 

Mai. 
What 's  the  newest  grief? 

Rosse. 

That  of  an  hour's  age  doth  hiss  the  speaker ; 
Each  minute  teems  a  new  one. 

Macduff. 
How  does  my  wife  ? 

Rosse. 

Why,  well.  {Solemnly. 

Macduff. 
And  all  my  children  ? 

Rosse. 
Well,  too. 


70  MACBETH. 

Macduff. 
The  tyrant  has  not  battered  at  their  peace  ? 

Rosse. 
No ;  they  were  well  at  peace  when  I  did  leave  them. 

Macduff. 
Be  not  a  niggard  of  your  speech :  how  goes  it  ? 

Rosse. 

When  I  came  hither  to  transport  the  tidings, 
Which  I  have  heavily  borne,  there  ran  a  rumour 
Of  many  worthy  fellows  that  were  out ; 
Which  was  to  my  belief  witnessed  the  rather, 
For  that  I  saw  the  tyrant's  power  a-foot : 
Now  is  the  time  of  help ;  your  eye  in  Scotland 

[To  Malcolm, 

Would  create  soldiers,  make  our  women  fight, 
To  doff  their  dire  distresses. 

Mai. 

Be  it  their  comfort 

We  are  coming  thither :  gracious  England  hath 
Lent  us  good  Siward  and  ten  thousand  men ; 
An  older  and  a  better  soldier  none 
That  Christendom  gives  out. 

Rosse. 

Would  I  could  answer 

This  comfort  with  the  like  !     But  I  have  words 
That  would  be  howled  out  in  the  desert  air, 
Where  hearing  should  not  latch  them. 

Macduff, 

What  concern  they  ? 
The  general  cause  ?  or  is  it  a  fee-grief 
Due  to  some  single  breast  ? 


MACBETH.  7 1 

Rosse. 

No  mind  that 's  honest 

But  in  it  shares  some  woe ;  though  the  main  part 
Pertains  to  you  alone. 

Macduff. 
If  it  be  mine, 
Keep  it  not  from  me,  quickly  let  me  have  it. 

Rosse. 

Let  not  your  ears  despise  my  tongue  forever, 
Which  shall  possess  them  with  the  heaviest  sound 
That  ever  yet  they  heard. 

Macduff. 

I  guess  at  it. 

Rosse. 

Your  castle  is  surprised ;  your  wife  and  babes 
Savagely  slaughtered ;  to  relate  the  manner, 
Were,  on  the  quarry  of  these  murdered  deer, 
To  add  the  death  of  you. 

Mai. 

Merciful  Heaven !  — 

What,  man !  ne'er  pull  your  hat  upon  your  brows ; 
Give  sorrow  words :  the  grief  that  does  not  speak 
Whispers  the  o'er-fraught  heart,  and  bids  it  break. 

Macdtiff. 

My  children  too  ? 

Rosse. 

Wife,  children,  servants,  all 
That  could  be  found. 

Macduff. 

And  I  must  be  from  thence!  — 
My  wife  killed  too  ? 

Rosse. 
I  have  said. 


J2  MACBETH. 

Mai. 

Be  comforted : 

Let 's  make  us  medicines  of  our  great  revenge, 
To  cure  this  deadly  grief. 

Macduff. 

He  has  no  children. — All  my  pretty  ones  ? 
Did  you  say  all  ?  — O,  hell-kite !— All  ? 
What !  all  my  pretty  chickens  and  their  dam 
At  one  fell  swoop  ? 

Mai. 
Dispute  it  like  a  man. 

Macduff. 
I  shall  do  so ; 

But  I  must  also  feel  it  as  a  man : 
I  cannot  but  remember  such  things  were, 
That  were  most  precious  to  me. —  Did  heaven  look  on, 
And  would  not  take  their  part  ?     Sinful  Macduff, 
They  were  all  struck  for  thee !  naught  that  I  am ! 
Not  for  their  own  demerits,  but  for  mine, 
Fell  slaughter  on  their  souls. 

Mai. 

Be  this  the  whetstone  of  your  sword :  let  grief 
Convert  to  anger ;  blunt  not  the  heart,  enrage  it. 

Macduff. 

O,  I  could  play  the  woman  with  mine  eyes, 

And  braggart  with  my  tongue!  —  But,  gentle  heavens, 

Cut  short  all  intermission ;  front  to  front 

Bring  thou  this  fiend  of  Scotland  and  myself; 

Within  my  sword's  length  set  him ;  if  he  'scape, 

Heaven  forgive  him  too ! 

CURTAIN. 


...  f.  (  DUNSINANE.        A     ROOM     IN     MACBETH's 

Scene  Jurat.          CASTLE 


a  Doctor  and  a  Waiting  Gentlewoman. 

Dod. 

I  have  two  nights  watched  with  you,  but  can  perceive 
no  truth  in  your  report.  When  was  it  she  last  walked  ? 

Gent. 

Since  his  majesty  went  into  the  field,  I  have  seen  her 
rise  from  her  bed,  throw  her  nightgown  upon  her,  unlock 
her  closet,  take  forth  paper,  fold  it,  write  upon  it,  read  it, 
afterwards  seal  it,  and  again  return  to  bed;  yet  all  this 
while  in  a  most  fast  sleep. 

Doct. 

A  great  perturbation  in  nature,  —  to  receive  at  once  the 
benefit  of  sleep,  and  do  the  effects  of  watching  !  —  In  this 
slumbery  agitation,  besides  her  walking  and  other  actual 
performances,  what,  at  any  time,  have  you  heard  her  say  ? 

Gent. 
That,  sir,  which  I  will  not  report  after  her. 

Doct. 
You  may  to  me;  and  't  is  most  meet  you  should. 

Gent. 

Neither  to  you  nor  any  one  ;  having  no  witness  to  con- 
firm my  speech.  —  Lo  you,  here  she  comes! 

[Enter  Lady  Macbeth,  with  a  light,  c. 

This  is  her  very  guise;  and,  upon  my  life,  fast  asleep. 
Observe  her;  stand  close. 


74  MACBETH. 

Doct. 
How  came  she  by  that  light  ? 

Gent. 

Why,  it  stood  by  her :  she  has  light  by  her  continually ; 
't  is  her  command. 

Doct. 
You  see,  her  eyes  are  open. 

Gent. 
Ay,  but  their  sense  is  shut. 

Doct. 

What  is  it  she  does  now  ?  Look,  how  she  rubs  her 
hands. 

Gent. 

It  is  an  accustomed  action  with  her,  to  seem  thus  wash- 
ing her  hands :  I  have  known  her  continue  in  this  a 
quarter  of  an  hour. 

Lady  M. 
Yet  here 's  a  spot. 

Doct. 
Hark !  she  speaks. 

Lady  M. 

Out,  damned  spot !  out,  I  say !  —  One,  two ;  why,  then 
't  is  time  to  do  't. —  Hell  is  murky  !  —  Fie !  my  lord,  fie !  a 
soldier,  and  afeared  ?  What  need  we  fear  who  knows  it, 
when  none  can  call  our  power  to  account? — Yet  who 
Avould  have  thought  the  old  man  to  have  had  so  much 
blood  in  him  ? 

Doct. 

Do  you  mark  that  ? 


MACBETH.  75 

Lady  M. 

The  thane  of  Fife  had  a  wife;  where  is  she  now?  — 
What !  will  these  hands  ne'er  be  clean  ?  No  more  o' 
that,  my  lord,  no  more  o'  that :  you  mar  all  with  this 
starting. 

Doct. 

Go  to,  go  to ;  you  have  known  what  you  should  not. 

Gent. 

She  has  spoke  what  she  should  not,  I  am  sure  of  that : 
Heaven  knows  what  she  has  known. 

Lady  M. 

Here 's  the  smell  of  the  blood  still :  all  the  perfumes  of 
Arabia  will  not  sweeten  this  little  hand.  O,  O,  O ! 

Doct. 
What  a  sigh  is  there !     The  heart  is  sorely  charged. 

Gent. 

I  would  not  have  such  a  heart  in  my  bosom  for  the 
dignity  of  the  whole  body. 

Lady  M. 

Wash  your  hands,  put  on  your  nightgown;  look  not 
so  pale :  —  I  tell  you  yet  again,  Banquo  's  buried ;  he  can 
not  come  out  on  's  grave. 

Doct. 
Even  so  ? 

Lady  M. 

To  bed,  to  bed ;  there  's  knocking  at  the  gate :  come, 
come,  come,  come,  give  me  your  hand  :  what  's  done  can 
not  be  undone :  to  bed,  to  bed,  to  bed. 

[Exit  Lady  Macbeth.     Doctor  and  Gentlewoman 
stand  apart,  watching  her. —  Scene  changes. 


76  MACBETH. 

&n>nt>     &ertin)i       S  DUNSINANE.    ANOTHER  ROOM  IN  MAC- 

)      BETH'S  CASTLE.  [SECOND  GROOVES.] 
[Enter  Macbeth  and  Attendants. 

Macbeth. 

Bring  me  no  more  reports ;  let  them  fly  all : 

Till  Birnam  wood  remove  to  Dunsinane, 

I  cannot  taint  with  fear.     What  's  the  boy  Malcolm  ? 

Was  he  not  born  of  woman  ?     The  spirits  that  know 

All  mortal  consequences  have  pronounced  me  thus, — 

"  Fear  not,  Macbeth ;  no  man  that  's  born  of  woman 

Shall  e'er  have  power  upon  thee."  —  Then  fly,  false  thanes, 

And  mingle  with  the  English  epicures; 

The  mind  I  sway  by,  and  the  heart  I  bear, 

Shall  never  sag  with  doubt  nor  shake  with  fear. 

[Enter  a  Servant. 

The  devil  damn  thee,  black,  thou  cream-faced  loon ! 
Where  got'st  thou  that  goose  look  ? 

Serv. 
There  is  ten  thousand 

Macbeth. 
Geese,  villain  ? 

Serv. 
Soldiers,  sir. 

Macbeth. 

Go  prick  thy  face,  and  over-red  thy  fear, 
Thou  lily-livered  boy.     What  soldiers,  patch  ? 
Death  of  thy  soul !  those  linen  cheeks  of  thine 
Are  counsellors  to  fear.     What  soldiers,  whey-face  ? 

Serv. 
The  English  force,  so  please  you. 

Macbeth. 

Take  thy  face  hence.  [Exit  Servant. 

Seyton !  —  I  am  sick  at  heart, 


MACBETH.  77 

When  I  behold Seyton,  I  say!  —  This  push 

Will  chair  me  ever,  or  disseat  me  now. 

I  have  lived  long  enough :  my  way  of  life 

Is  fall'n  into  the  sear,  the  yellow  leaf; 

And  that  which  should  accompany  old  age, 

As  honour,  love,  obedience,  troops  of  friends, 

I  must  not  look  to  have ;  but,  in  their  stead, 

Curses,  not  loud  but  deep,  mouth-honour,  breath, 

Which  the  poor  heart  would  fain  deny,  and  dare  not. — 

Seyton !  \Enter  Seyton. 

Sey. 
What  is  your  gracious  pleasure  ? 

Macbeth. 
What  news  more  ? 

Sey. 

All  is  confirmed,  my  lord,  which  was  reported. 

Macbeth. 

I  '11  fight,  till  from  my  bones-  my  flesh  be  hacked. 
Give  me  my  armour. 

Sey. 
T  is  not  needed  yet. 

Macbeth. 
I  '11  put  it  on. — 

Send  out  more  horses,  skirr  the  country  round ; 
Hang  those  that  talk  of  fear. —  Give  me  mine  armour. — 

[Exit  Sey  Ion  R. — Enter  Doctor  L. 
How  does  your  patient,  doctor  ? 

Doct. 

Not  so  sick,  my  lord, 

As  she  is  troubled  with  thick-coming  fancies, 
That  keep  her  from  her  rest. 


7  8  MACBETH. 

Macbeth. 

Cure  her  of  that : 

Canst  thou  not  minister  to  a  mind  diseased; 
Pluck  from  the  memory  a  rooted  sorrow ; 
Raze  out  the  written  troubles  of  the  brain ; 
And  with  some  sweet  oblivious  antidote 
Cleanse  the  stuffed  bosom  of  that  perilous  stuff 
Which  weighs  upon  the  heart  ? 


Doct. 


Therein  the  patient 
Must  minister  to  himself. 


Macbeth. 

Throw  physic  to  the  dogs, —  I  '11  none  of  it. — 

{Enter  Seyton,  with  armour. 
Come,  put  mine  armour  on ;  give  me  my  staff:  — 

Seyton,  send  out Doctor,  the  thanes  fly  from  me.— • 

If  thou  couldst,  doctor,  cast 

The  water  of  my  land,  find  her  disease, 

And  purge  it  to  a  sound  and  pristine  health, 

I  would  applaud  thee  to  the  very  echo, 

That  should  applaud  again. 

What  rhubarb,  senna,  or  what  purgative  drug, 

Would  scour  these  English  hence  ? 

Hear'st  thou  of  them  ? 

Doct. 

Ay,  my  good  lord ;  your  royal  preparation 

Makes  us  hear  something.  [Seyton  offers  arniour. 


Macbeth. 

Bring  it  after  me. — 

I  will  not  be  afraid  of  death  and  bane, 

Till  Birnam  forest  come  to  Dunsinane.       [Exeunt  Omnes. 


MACBETH.  79 

FULL  STAGE.     COUNTRY  NEAR  DUNSIN- 
Th          i       ANE  :  A  WOOD  IN  VIEW.      FLOURISH. 
}       MALCOLM,  MACDUFF,  LENNOX,  ROSSE, 
AND  SOLDIERS  DISCOVERED. 

Mai. 

Cousins,  I  hope  the  days  are  near  at  hand 
That  chambers  will  be  safe. 

Len. 
We  doubt  it  nothing. 

Rosse. 

What  wood  is  this  before  us  ? 

Len. 
The  wood  of  Birnam. 

Mai. 

Let  every  soldier  hew  him  down  a  bough, 
And  bear  't  before  him  :  thereby  shall  we  shadowy 
The  numbers  of  our  host,  and  make  discovery 
Err  in  report  of  us. 

Soldiers. 
It  shall  be  done. 

[A   number  of  soldiers  go  out,  at  different  sides, 
with  axes,  etc. 

Len. 

We  learn  no  other  but  the  confident  tyrant 
Keeps  still  in  Dunsinane,  and  will  endure 
Our  setting  down  before  't. 

Mai. 

'T  is  his  main  hope : 

For  where  there  is  advantage  to  be  given, 
Both  more  and  less  have  given  him  the  revolt ; 
And  none  serve  with  him  but  constrained  things, 
Whose  hearts  are  absent  too. 


8o  MACBETH. 

Macduff. 

Let  our  just  censures 

Attend  the  true  event,  and  put  we  on 

Industrious  soldiership. 

The  time  approaches 

That  will  with  due  decision  make  us  know 

What  we  shall  say  we  have,  and  what  we  owe. 

Thoughts  speculative  their  unsure  hopes  relate ; 

But  certain  issue  strokes  must  arbitrate : 

Towards  which  advance  the  war. 

[Soldiers  enter,  from  different  sides,  with  boughs.- 
Scene  closes  in. 


jFourtj). —  DUNSINANE.     WITHIN  THE  CASTLE. 

[Enter  Macbeth,  Seyton,  and  Officers. 
Macbeth. 

Hang  out  our  banners  on  the  outward  walls ; 

The  cry  is  still,  "  They  come : "  our  castle's  strength 

Will  laugh  a  siege  to  scorn :  here  let  them  lie 

Till  famine  and  the  ague  eat  them  up  : 

Were  they  not  forced  with  those  that  should  be  ours, 

We  might  have  met  them  darefuL  beard  to  beard, 

And  beat  them  backward  home. 

[A  cry  of  women,  withbi, 
What  is  that  noise  ? 

Sey. 

It  is  the  cry  of  women,  my  good  lord. 

[Exit  Seyton  L, 
Macbeth. 

I  have  almost  forgot  the  taste  of  fears : 
The  time  has  been  my  senses  would  have  cooled 
To  hear  a  night-shriek;  and  my  fell  of  hair 
Would  at  a  dismal  treatise  rouse  and  stir 


MACBETH.  8 1 

As  life  were  in  't :  I  have  supped  full  with  horrors ; 
Direness,  familiar  to  my  slaughterous  thoughts, 
Cannot  once  start  me.  [Re-enter  Seyton  L. 

Wherefore  was  that  cry  ? 

Sey. 
The  queen,  my  lord,  is  dead.       [All  show  signs  of  sorrow. 

Macbeth. 

She  should  have  died  hereafter; 

There  would  have  been  a  time  for  such  a  word. — 

To-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow, 

Creeps  in  this  petty  pace  from  day  to  day, 

To  the  last  syllable  of  recorded  time ; 

And  all  our  yesterdays  have  lighted  fools 

The  way  to  dusty  death.     Out,  out,  brief  candle ! 

Life  's  but  a  walking  shadow ;  a  poor  player, 

That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage, 

And  then  is  heard  no  more :  it  is  a  tale 

Told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury, 

Signifying  nothing.  [Enter  a  Servant. 

Thou  com'st  to  use  thy  tongue;  thy  story  quickly. 

Serv. 

Gracious  my  lord, 

I  should  report  that  which  I  say  I  saw, 
But  know  not  how  to  do  it. 

Macbeth. 
Well,  say,  sir. 

Serv. 

As  I  did  stand  my  watch  upon  the  hill, 

I  looked  toward  Birnam,  and  anon,  methought, 

The  wood  began  to  move. 

Macbeth. 
Liar  and  slave ! 
6 


82  MACBETH. 

Serv. 

Let  me  endure  your  wrath,  if 't  be  not  so  : 

{Servant  kneels. 

Within  this  three  mile  may  you  see  it  coming ; 
I  say,  a  moving  grove. 

Macbeth. 

If  thou  speak'st  false, 
Upon  the  next  tree  shalt  thou  hang  alive, 
Till  famine  cling  thee :  if  thy  speech  be  sooth, 
I  care  not  if  thou  dost  for  me  as  much. 

{Servant  rises  and  goes  up  c. 
I  pull  in  resolution ;  and  begin 
To  doubt  the  equivocation  of  the  fiend, 
That  lies  like  truth  :  "  Fear  not,  till  Birnam  wood 
Do  come  to  Dunsinane ;" — and  now  a  wood 
Comes  toward  Dunsinane. — Arm,  arm,  and  out! 
If  this  which  he  avouches  does  appear, 
There  is  no  flying  hence  nor  tarrying  here. 
I  'gin  to  be  a-weary  of  the  sun, 
And  wish  th'  estate  o'  the  world  were  now  undone. — 
Ring  the  alarum-bell! — Blow,  wind!  come  wrack! 
At  least  we  '11  die  with  harness  on  our  back. 

[Exeunt. 


(  DUNSINANE.  A  PLAIN  BEFORE  THE  CASTLE. 
JFtftf).  ^      MALCOLM,  MACDUFF,  AND  THEIR  ARMY, 
(      WITH  BOUGHS,  DISCOVERED. 

Mai. 

Now  near  enough ;  your  leafy  screens  throw  down, 
And  show  like  those  you  are. — You,  worthy  uncle, 
Shall,  with  my  cousin,  your  right-noble  son, 
Lead  our  first  battle  :  worthy  Macdufif  and  we 
Shall  take  upon  us  what  else  remains  to  do, 
According  to  our  order. 
Do  we  but  find  the  tyrant's  power  to-night, 
Let  us  be  beaten,  if  we  cannot  fight. 


MACBETH.  83 

Macduff. 

Make  all  our  trumpets  speak ;  give  them  all  breath, 
Those  clamorous  harbingers  of  blood  and  death. 

[Flourish, —  Exeunt. —  Alarums. — Enter  Macbeth. 

Macbeth. 

They  have  tied  me  to  a  stake ;  I  cannot  fly, 
But,  bear-like,  I  must  fight  the  course. —  What  's  he 
That  was  not  born  of  woman  ?     Such  a  one 
Am  I  to  fear,  or  none. 

[Exit. — Alarums. — Enter  Macduff. 

Macduff. 

That  way  the  noise  is. — Tyrant,  show  thy  face! 
If  thou  be'st  slain,  and  with  no  stroke  of  mine, 
My  wife  and  children's  ghosts  will  haunt  me  still. 
I  cannot  strike  at  wretched  kerns,  whose  arms 
Are  hired  to  bear  their  staves :  either  thou,  Macbeth, 
Or  else  my  sword,  with  an  unbattered  edge, 
I  sheathe  again  undeeded. 
Let  me  find  him,  fortune ! 
And  more  I  beg  not. 

[Exit. — Alarums. — Re-enter  Macbeth. 

Macbeth. 

Why  should  I  play  the  Roman  fool,  and  die 

On  mine  own  sword  ?  whiles  I  see  lives,  the  gashes 

Do  better  upon  them.  [Re-enter  Macduff. 

Macduff. 
Turn,  hell-hound,  turn ! 

Afacbeih. 

Of  all  men  else  I  have  avoided  thee : 

But  get  thee  back ;  my  soul  is  too  much  charged 

With  blood  of  thine  already. 


84  MACBETH. 

Macdujf. 

I  have  no  words, — 

My  voice  is  in  my  sword ;  thou  bloodier  villain 

Than  terms  can  give  thee  out!  [They  fight. 


Macbeth. 

Thou  losest  labour : 

As  easy  mayst  thou  the  intrenchant  air 

With  thy  keen  sword  impress,  as  make  me  bleed : 

Let  fall  thy  blade  on  vulnerable  crests; 

I  bear  a  charmed  life,  which  must  not  yield 

To  one  of  woman  born. 

Macduff. 

Despair  thy  charm ; 

And  let  the  angel  whom  thou  still  hast  served 
Tell  thee,  Macduff  was  from  his  mother's  womb 
Untimely  ripped. 

Macbeth. 

Accursed  be  that  tongue  that  tells  me  so, 

For  it  hath  cowed  my  better  part  of  man  ! 

And  be  these  juggling  fiends  no  more  believed, 

That  palter  with  us  in  a  double  sense ; 

That  keep  the  word  of  promise  to  our  ear, 

And  break  it  to  our  hope. —  I  '11  not  fight  with  thee. 


Macduff. 

Then  yield  thee,  coward, 

And  live  to  be  the  show  and  gaze  o'  the  time; 

We  '11  have  thee,  as  our  rarer  monsters  are, 

Painted  upon  a  pole  and  underwrit, 

"  Here  may  you  see  the  tyrant." 


MACBETH.  85 

Macbeth. 
I  will  not  yield, 

To  kiss  the  ground  before  young  Malcolm's  feet, 
And  to  be  bated  with  the  rabble's  curse. 
Though  Birnam  wood  be  come  to  Dunsinane, 
And  thou  opposed,  being  of  no  woman  born, 
Yet  I  will  try  the  last : 
Lay  on,  Macduff; 
And  damned  be  him  that  first  cries,  "  Hold,  enough ! " 

[They  fight,  and  Macbeth  is  killed. — flourish. — 
Enter,  with  drum  and  banners,  Malcolm,  Rosse, 
Lennox  and  Soldiers. 

All.  [To  Malcolm. 

Hail,  king  of  Scotland !  [Flourish. 

CURTAIN. 


MACBETH. 

APPENDIX. 
I.— HISTORICAL  BASIS  OF  MACBETH. 

"r  •  AHE  interest  of  '  Macbeth '  is  not  an  historical  interest.  It  matters 
not  whether  the  action  is  true,  or  has  been  related  as  true  :  it 
belongs  to  the  realms  of  poetry  altogether.  We  might  as  well  call 
'  Lear '  or  '  Hamlet '  historical  plays,  because  the  outlines  of  the  story 
of  each  are  to  be  found  in  old  records  of  the  past.  *  *  *  *  That 
Shakespeare  found  sufficient  material  for  this  great  drama  in  Holinshed's 
'  History  of  Scotland  '  is  a  fact  that  renders  it  quite  unnecessary  for  us 
to  enter  into  any  discussion  as  to  the  truth  of  this  portion  of  the  history. 
*  *  *  *  Better  authorities  than  Holinshed  had  access  to  have  shown 
that  the  contest  for  the  crown  of  Scotland  between  Duncan  and  Macbeth 
was  a  contest  of  factions,  and  that  Macbeth  was  raised  to  the  throne  by 
his  Norwegian  allies  after  a  battle  in  which  Duncan  fell ;  in  the  same 
way,  after  a  long  rule,  was  he  vanquished  and  killed  by  the  son  of 
Duncan,  supported  by  his  English  allies."  CHARLES  KNIGHT. 


The  passages  in  Holinshed's  history  which  Shakespeare  has  followed 
in  the  composition  of  this  tragedy  relate,  with  much  particularity  and  in 
antiquated  prose,  the  meeting  of  Macbeth  and  Banquo  with  the  Witches ; 
the  accession  of  Macbeth  to  the  throne  of  Scotland ;  the  murder  of 
Banquo  and  the  escape  of  Fleance  ;  the  trial  of  Macduff  s  loyalty  by 
Malcolm,  and  the  defeat  and  death  of  Macbeth.  The  essential  parts  of 
this  narrative  have  been,  by  Shakespeare,  transfigured  into  noble  poetry. 
The  dry  details  of  the  history  become,  in  the  tragedy,  fascinating  inci- 
dents of  a  grim,  weird,  and  terrible  romance  ;  while  the  royal  monster 
of  the  chronicle  is  elevated,  in  the  poem,  into  a  grand  and  piteous  image 
of  natural  heroism  perverted  and  ruined  by  the  potent  and  irresistible 
instruments  of  a  malignant  fate.  Shakespeare  did  not  hesitate  to  wander 
away  from  the  historic  original.  The  appearance  of  the  ghost  of  Banquo 
to  Macbeth  and  the  sleep-walking  of  Lady  Macbeth  are  inventions  of 
the  poet ;  and  he  has  very  artfully  comfcined  with  Holinshed's  account 


88  APPENDIX. 

of  Macbeth  the  same  writer's  description  of  the  murder  of  King  Duffe 
by  Donwald — more  than  sixty  years  before  Macbeth's  time.  This 
description,  when  contrasted  with  the  second  act  of  the  tragedy,  illus- 
trates, with  brilliant  effect,  the  wonderful  poetic  method  of  Shakespeare. 
It  is  also  a  useful  specimen  of  the  style  of  the  old  chronicler  whom  he  so 
often  read  and  followed.  W.  W. 


"  The  King  got  him  into  his  privy  chamber,  only  with  two  of  his 
chamberlains,  who,  having  brought  him  to  bed,  came  forth  again,  and 
then  fell  to  banqueting  with  Donwald  and  his  wife,  who  had  prepared 
divers  delicate  dishes  and  sundry  sorts  of  drinks  for  their  rear-supper  or 
collation,  whereat  they  sat  up  so  long,  till  they  had  charged  their 
stomachs  with  such  full  gorges,  that  their  heads  were  no  sooner  got  to 
the  pillow  but  asleep  they  were  so  fast  that  a  man  might  have  removed 
the  chamber  over  them  sooner  than  to  have  awaked  them  out  of  their 
drunken  sleep. 

"  Then  Donwald,  though  he  abhorred  the  act  greatly  in  heart,  yet, 
through  instigation  of  his  wife,  he  called  four  of  his  servants  unto  him 
[whom  he  had  made  privy  to  his  wicked  intent  before,  and  framed  to 
his  purpose  with  large  gifts],  and  now,  declaring  unto  them  after  what 
sort  they  should  work  the  feat,  they  gladly  obeyed  his  instructions,  and, 
speedily  going  about  the  murder,  they  entered  the  chamber  [in  which 
the  King  lay]  a  little  before  cock's-crow,  where  they  secretly  cut  his 
throat,  as  he  lay  sleeping,  without  any  bustling  at  all ;  and  immediately, 
by  a  postern  gate,  they  carried  forth  the  dead  body  into  the  fields. 
*  *  *  *  Donwald,  about  the  time  that  the  murder  was  in 
doing,  got  him  amongst  them  that  kept  the  watch,  and  so  continued  in 
company  with  them  all  the  residue  of  the  night.  But  in  the  morning, 
when  the  noise  was  raised  in  the  King's  chamber  how  the  King  was 
slain,  his  body  conveyed  away,  and  the  bed  all  beraid  with  blood,  he, 
with  the  watch,  ran  thither,  as  though  he  had  known  nothing  of  tl-.r' 
matter,  and,  breaking  into  the  chamber,  and  finding  cakes  of  blood  in 
the  bed  and  on  the  floor  about  the  sides  of  it,  he  forthwith  slew  the 
chamberlains  as  guilty  of  that  heinous  murder.  *  *  *  * 
For  the  space  of  six  months  together,  after  this  heinous  murder  thus 
committed,  there  appeared  no  sun  by  day,  nor  moon  by  night,  in  any 
part  of  the  realm  ;  but  still  was  the  sky  covered  with  continual  clouds, 
and  sometimes  such  outrageous  winds  arose,  with  lightnings  and  tem- 
pests, that  the  people  were  in  great  fear  of  present  destruction." 

HOLINSHED'S  HISTORY  OF  SCOTLAND. 


APPENDIX.  89 

The  contrast  between  the  apocryphal  and  the  real  history  of  Macbeth 
is  suggested  in  the  subjoined  summary  of  facts  : 

"Macbeth,  or  Macbeathad  MacFinlegh,  as  he  is  called  in  contempo- 
rary chronicles,  was  a  king  of  Scotland.  From  his  father,  Finlegh,  the 
son  of  Ruadhri,  he  inherited  the  rule  of  the  province  of  Moray,  and  he 
became  allied  with  the  royal  line  by  his  marriage  with  Gruoch  Mac- 
Boedhe,  the  granddaughter  of  King  Kenneth  MacDuff.  In  the  year 
1039  he  headed  an  attack  upon  King  Duncan  MacCrinan  at  a  place 
called  Bothgouanan  (the  Smith's  Bothy),  where  the  King  was  mortally 
wounded,  but  survived  to  be  carried  to  Elgin,  in  Moray.  Macbeth  now 
ascended  the  throne,  and  his  reign  of  seventeen  years  is  commemorated 
in  the  chronicles  as  a  time  of  plenty.  He  made  grants  to  the  Culdees 
of  Loch  Leven,  and  in  the  year  1050  went  in  pilgrimage  to  Rome. 
Malcolm  MacDuncan,  or  Ceanmore,  the  eldest  son  of  King  Duncan 
MacCrinan,  had  fled  to  England  on  his  father's  death  ;  and  in  the  sum- 
mer of  1054,  his  kinsman,  Siward,  Earl  of  Northumberland,  led  an 
English  army  into  Scotland  against  Macbeth.  That  King  was  defeated 
with  great  slaughter,  but  escaped  from  the  field,  and  still  kept  the 
throne.  Four  years  afterwards  he  was  again  defeated  by  Malcolm  Mac- 
Duncan,  and,  fleeing  northwards  across  the  mountain-range,  since  called 
the  Grampians,  he  was  slain  at  Lumphanan,  in  Aberdeenshire,  on  the 
5th  of  December,  1056.  His  followers  were  able  to  place  his  nephew, 
or  step-son,  Lulach,  on  the  throne  ;  and  his  defeat  and  death  at  Essie, 
in  Strathbogie,  on  the  3d  of  April,  1057,  opened  the  succession  to  Mal- 
colm, who,  three  weeks  afterwards,  was  crowned  at  Scone.  This  is  all 
that  is  certainly  known  of  the  history  of  Macbeth.  The  fables  which 
gradually  accumulated  round  his  name  were  systematized  in  the  begin- 
ning of  the  fifteenth  century  by  the  historian  Hector  Boece,  from  whose 
pages  they  were  transferred  to  the  chronicle  of  Holinshed,  where  they 
met  the  eye  of  Shakespeare.  Nearly  half  a  century  before  his  great 
play  was  written,  Buchanan  had  remarked  how  well  the  legend  of 
Macbeth  was  fitted  for  the  stage." — CHAMBERS'S  ENCYCLOPAEDIA, 
vol.  vi.,  p.  237. 


Duncan  reigned  over  Scotland  from  1034  till  1039-40 ;  Macbeth  from 
1039-40  till  1056-57.  Finlegh,  Thane  of  Glamis,  the  father  of  Macbeth, 
is  mentioned  in  the  tragedy,  as  Sinel.  Duncan  was  the  son  of  Beatrice, 
eldest  daughter  of  King  Malcolm  —  whom  he  succeeded  upon  the  throne. 
Macbeth  was  the  son  of  Doada,  the  younger  daughter  of  King  Malcolm  ; 
so  that  Duncan  and  Macbeth  were  cousins.  W.  W 


90  APPENDIX. 

"  The  real  wife  of  Macbeth  —  she  who  lives  only  in  the  obscure  record 
of  an  obscure  age  —  bore  the  very  unmusical  appellation  of  Gruoch,  and 
was  instigated  to  the  murder  of  Duncan,  not  only  by  ambition,  but  by 
motives  of  vengeance.  She  was  the  granddaughter  of  Kenneth  IV., 
killed  in  1003,  fighting  against  Malcolm  II.,  the  father  of  Duncan." 

MRS.  JAMESON. 

"  The  royal  widow  [of  Gryffyth,  son  of  Llewellyn,  the  Welch  King] 
had  laid  by  the  signs  of  mourning ;  she  was  dressed  with  the  usual 
stately  and  loose-robed  splendour  of  Saxon  matrons,  and  all  the  proud 
beauty  of  her  youth  was  restored  to  her  cheek.  At  her  feet  was  that 
daughter  who  afterwards  married  the  Fleance  so  familiar  to  us  in  Shakes- 
peare, and  became  the  ancestral  mother  of  those  Scottish  kings  who  had 
passed,  in  pale  shadows,  across  the  eyes  of  Macbeth." 
"And  so,  from  Gryffyth,  beheaded  by  his  subjects,  descended  Charles 
Stuart."— BULWER'S  "  HAROLD."  Book  x,  chapter  8. 


II. — THEME  AND  SUBSTANCE  OF  MACBETH. 

"  The  theme  of  the  drama  is  the  gradual  ruin,  through  yielding  to  evil 
within  and  evil  without,  of  a  man,  who,  though  from  the  first  tainted  by 
base  and  ambitious  thoughts,  yet  possessed  elements  in  his  nature  of 
possible  honour  and  loyalty.  The  contrast  between  Macbeth  and  Lady 
Macbeth,  united  by  their  affections,  their  fortunes,  and  their  crime,  is 
made  to  illustrate  the  character  of  each.  Macbeth  has  physical  courage, 
but  moral  weakness,  and  is  subject  to  excited,  imaginative  fears.  His 
faint  and  intermittent  loyalty  embarrasses  him — he  would  have  the  gain 
of  crime  without  its  pains.  But  when  once  his  hands  are  dyed  in  blood, 
he  hardly  cares  to  withdraw  them,  and  the  same  fears  which  had  tended 
to  hold  him  back  from  murder,  now  urge  him  on  to  double  and  treble 
murders,  until  slaughter,  almost  reckless,  becomes  the  habit  of  his  reign. 
At  last,  the  gallant  soldier  of  the  opening  of  the  play  fights- for  his  life 
with  a  wild  and  brute-like  force.  His  whole  existence  has  become  joyless 
and  loveless,  and  yet  he  clings  to  existence.  Lady  Macbeth  is  of  a 
finer  and  more  delicate  nature.  Having  fixed  her  eyes  upon  an  end, — 
the  attainment  for  her  husband  of  Duncan's  crown, — she  accepts  the 
inevitable  means  ;  she  nerves  herself  for  the  terrible  night's  work  by 
artificial  stimulants ;  yet  she  cannot  strike  the  sleeping  King,  who 
resembles  her  father.  Having  sustained  her  weaker  husband,  her  own 
strength  gives  way ;  and  in  sleep,  when  her  will  cannot  controul  her 


APPENDIX.  91 

thoughts,  she  is  piteously  afflicted  by  the  memory  of  one  stain  of  blood 
upon  her  little  hand.  At  last  her  thread  of  life  snaps  suddenly.  Mac- 
beth, whose  affection  for  her  was  real,  has  sunk  too  far  into  the  apathy 
of  joyless  crime  to  feel  deeply  her  loss.  Banquo,  the  loyal  soldier,  pray- 
ing for  restraint  of  evil  thoughts  which  enter  his  mind  as  they  had 
entered  that  of  Macbeth,  but  which  work  no  evil  there,  is  set  over  against 
Macbeth,  as  virtue  is  set  over  against  disloyalty.  The  Witches  are  the 
supernatural  beings  of  terror,  in  harmony  with  Shakespeare's  tragic 
period,  as  the  fairies  of  the  '  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  '  are  the  super- 
natural beings  of  his  days  of  fancy  and  frolic,  and  as  Ariel  is  the  super- 
natural genius  of  his  latest  period.  There  is  at  once  a  grossness,  a 
horrible  reality  about  the  Witches,  and  a  mystery  and  grandeur  of  evil 
influence."  EDWARD  DOWDEN. 


"  I  take  it,  what  Shakespeare  meant  to  represent  in  Macbeth  was 
the  kind  of  character  which  is  most  liable  to  be  influenced  by  a  belief 
in  supernatural  agencies, —  a  man  who  is  acutely  sensitive  to  all  impres- 
sions ;  who  has  a  restless  imagination,  more  powerful  than  his  will ;  who 
sees  daggers  in  the  air  and  ghosts  in  the  banquet-hall ;  who  has  moral 
weakness  and  physical  courage,  and  who  alternates  perpetually  between 
terror  and  daring, —  a  trembler  when  opposed  by  his  conscience,  and  a 
warrior  when  defied  by  his  foe." — BULWER.  Speech  at  the  Farewell 
Banquet  to  Macready,  London,  March  ist,  1851. 


"Among  those  undefined  influences  which  stream  from  the  greater 
dramas  of  Shakespeare  may  be  numbered  the  climate  of  the  play ;  and 
this,  while  often  eluding  the  observation,  tells  surely  upon  the  feeling 
of  the  reader.  *  *  *  *  \Ve  pass  to  the  chill  mists  of  Scotland. 
The  supernatural  element  in  '  Macbeth  '  is  more  pervading 
and  various  in  its  workings  than  in  '  Hamlet."  The  character  is  more 
closely  knit ;  the  action  more  peremptory  and  progressive.  In  his  ambi- 
tion, and  in  the  ways  of  satisfying  it,  there  are  points  of  likeness  to 
'Richard.'  But  Richard  moved  toward  his  design  '  without  remorse  or 
dread,'  while  Macbeth  is  a  victim  to  both  these  conditions:  not  from  a 
lack  of  courage,  but  by  virtue  of  a  morbid  excess  of  imagination,  which 
projects  his  thoughts  into  objects.  So  dominant  is  this  quality  that 
the  weird  sisters  themselves  seem  like  the  outward  shapes  of  his  guilty 
purposes.  They  appear  first  upon  the  scene,  then  vanish,  then  re-appear, 


92  APPENDIX. 

as  if  they  were  the  influences  of  his  mind  as  well  as  the  heralds  of  his 
approach.  *  *  •  *  *  Macbeth's  action  is  a  succession  of  crimes,  but 
the  intervals  are  filled  with  thoughtful  speech.  The  truth  and  beauty 
that  slide  into  these  musings  show  the  native  affinity  of  the  imaginative 
faculty  with  what  is  best  in  man."— THOMAS  R.  GOULD.  "THE 
TRAGEDIAN,"  pp.  118-119-128. 


"The  tragedy  of  'Macbeth'  is  a  moral  tempest.  Crimes  and  retri- 
butions come  whirling  past  us  like  the  rushing  of  a  resistless  hurricane. 
The  very  prologue  of  the  play  is  spoken  in  thunder  and  lightning  ;  the 
moral  and  material  worlds  seem  shouting  and  responding  to  each  other 
in  convulsions  and  cataracts.  *  *  *  *  Everywhere  we  have  storms, 
physical  and  spiritual,  treading  on  the  heels  of  physical  and  spiritual 
calms.  *  *  *  *  Slumber  shuts  up  the  senses  of  the  body,  to  let  out 
the  secrets  of  the  soul.  Memory  plies  her  spinning-wheel  and  shuttle, 
to  weave  the  burning  mantle  of  remorse.  Imagination  lends  her  plastic 
hand  to  body  forth  the  apprehensions  of  guilty  fear.  *  *  *  *  In 
the  exciting  of  terror,  this  play  is  truly  without  a  parallel.  Almost  every 
scene  is  a  masterpiece  either  of  poetry  or  of  philosophy,  of  description  or 
character  or  actjon  or  passion.  *  *  *  *  There  is  probably  no  other 
single  work  in  the  whole  domain  of  art  or  nature  that  furnishes  so  many 
and  so  magnificent  pictures  for  imagination,  or  so  many  and  so  magnifi- 
cent subjects  for  reflection.  It  forms  a  sort  of  university,  where  poetry 
has  long  been  wont  to  resort  for  its  highest  inspirations,  and  moral 
philosophy  for  its  profoundest  instructions  and  illustrations." — H.  N. 
HUDSON. 


"  Macbeth's  passions  are  imperious,  but  no  series  of  reasonings  and 
projects  determines  and  governs  them ;  they  form  a  lofty  tree,  but  one 
devoid  of  roots,  which  the  least  breeze  may  shake,  and  the  fall  of  which 
is  a  disaster.  Hence  arises  his  tragic  grandeur ;  it  resides  in  his  destiny 
more  than  in  his  character." — GUIZOT. 


"  In  this  and  the  like  cases  our  interest  fastens  on  what  is  not  evil  in 
the  character.  There  is  something  kindling  and  ennobling  in  the  con- 
sciousness, however  awakened,  of  the  energy  which  resides  in  mind ; 
and  many  a  virtuous  man  has  borrowed  new  strength  from  the  force, 
constancy,  and  dauntless  courage  of  evil  agents." — DR.  CHANNING. 


APPENDIX.  93 

III.— THE  CHARACTERS  IN  MACBETH. 

"A  strong  and  excitable  imagination,  set  on  fire  of  conscience,  naturally 
fascinates  and  spell-binds  the  other  faculties,  and  thus  gives  an  objective 
force  and  effect  to  its  own  internal  workings.  Under  this  guilt-begotten 
hallucination,  the  subject  loses  present  dangers  in  horrible  imaginings, 
and  comes  to  be  tormented  with  his  own  involuntary  creations.  Thus 
conscience  inflicts  its  retributions,  not  directly  in  the  form  of  remorse, 
but  indirectly  through  imaginary  terrors  which  again  react  on  the  con- 
science, as  fire  is  kept  burning  by  the  current  of  air  which  itself  generates. 
In  such  a  mind,  the  workings  of  conscience  may  be  prospective  and  pre- 
ventive ;  the  very  conception  of  crime  starting  up  a  swarm  of  terrific 
visions  to  withhold  the  subject  from  perpetration.  Arrangement  is  thus 
made  in  our  nature  for  a  process  of  compensation,  in  that  the  same 
faculty  which  invests  crime  with  unreal  attractions  also  calls  up  unreal 
terrors  to  deter  from  its  commission.  A  predominance  of  this  faculty 
everywhere  marks  the  character  and  conduct  of  Macbeth.  *  *  *  * 
He  seems  remorseless  only  because  in  his  mind  the  agonies  of  remorse 
project  and  translate  themselves  into  the  spectres  of  a  conscience-stricken 
imagination. 

"In  Lady  Macbeth,  on  the  contrary,  the  workings  of  conscience  can 
only  be  retrospective  and  retributive  ;  she  is  too  unimaginative  either  to 
be  allured  to  crime  by  imaginary  splendours,  or  withheld  from  it  by 
imaginary  terrors.  Without  an  organ  to  project  and  embody  its  work- 
ings in  outward  visions,  her  conscience  can  only  prey  upon  itself  in  the 
tortures  of  remorse.  Accordingly,  she  knows  no  compunctious  visitings 
before  the  deed,  nor  any  suspension  or  alleviation  of  them  after  it.  Thus, 
from  her  want  or  weakness  of  imagination,  she  becomes  the  victim  of  a 
silent  but  most  dreadful  retribution.  *  *  *  *  This  is  a  form  of 
anguish  to  which  heaven  has  apparently  denied  the  relief  or  the  mitiga- 
tion of  utterance.  The  agonies  of  an  embosomed  hell  cannot  be  told  ; 
they  can  only  be  felt.  *  *  *  *  If  there  be  one  ingredient  in  the  cup 
of  retribution  more  unspeakably  bitter  than  all  the  rest,  it  must  be  this 
consciousness  of  guilt  united  with  the  conscious  impossibility  of  repent- 
ance. This,  I  take  it,  is  the  worm  that  never  dies  and  the  fire  that  is 
not  to  be  quenched."  H.  N.  HUDSON. 


"When  Lady  Macbeth's  passion  is  satisfied  and  the  action  committed, 
then  only  will  the  other  consequences  be  revealed  to  her  as  a  novelty  of 
which  she  previously  had  not  the  slightest  anticipation.  Those  fears, 


94  APPENDIX. 

and  that  necessity  for  new  crimes,  which  her  husband  had  foreseen  at  the 
outset,  she  has  never  thought  of.  *  *  *  *  Macbeth  has  become 
hardened  in  crime,  after  having  hesitated  to  commie  it,  because  he  knew 
its  character ;  but  we  shall  see  his  wife,  succumbing  beneath  the  knowl- 
edge which  she  has  acquired  too  late,  substitute  one  fixed  idea  for 
another,  die  to  deliver  herself  from  its  influence,  and  punish  by  the 
madness  of  despair  the  crime  which  she  was  led  to  commit  by  the  mad- 
ness of  ambition.  The  other  personages,  introduced  merely  to  fill  up 
this  great  picture  of  the  progress  and  destiny  of  crime,  have  no  other 
colour  than  that  of  the  position  given  them  by  history."  GUIZOT. 


"  The  crime  of  Lady  Macbeth  terrifies  us  in  proportion  as  we  sympa- 
thize with  her;  and  this  sympathy  is  in  proportion  to  the  degree  of 
pride,  passion  and  intellect  we  may  ourselves  possess.  It  is  good  to 
behold  and  to  tremble  at  the  possible  result  of  the  noblest  faculties 
uncontrolled  or  perverted. 

"The  obdurate  inflexibility  of  purpose  with  which  she  drives  on 
Macbeth  to  the  execution  of  their  project,  and  her  masculine  indifference 
to  blood  and  death,  would  inspire  unmitigated  disgust  and  horror,  but 
for  the  involuntary  consciousness  that  it  is  produced  rather  by  the 
exertion  of  a  strong  power  over  herself,  than  by  absolute  depravity  of 
disposition  and  ferocity  of  temper. 

"  She  is  not  a  mere  monster  of  depravity,  with  whom  we  have  nothing 
in  common.  *  *  *  *•  She  is  a  terrible  impersonation  of  evil  passions 
and  mighty  powers,  never  so  far  removed  from  our  own  nature  as  to  be 
cast  beyond  the  pale  of  our  sympathies  ;  for  the  woman  herself  remains 
a  woman  to  the  last  —  still  linked  with  her  sex  and  with  humanity." 

MRS.  JAMESON. 

"  Angels,  once  fallen,  of  course  become  the  most  incorrigible  of  devils. 
Hence  it  is  that  women  generally  are  so  much  better  or  so  much  worse 
than  the  other  sex.  They  seldom  halt  between  two  opinions ;  rarely 
linger  at  the  half-way  house  of  sin ;  hardly  ever  rest  or  rock  in  a  state  of 
moral  betweenity  ;  never  stop  to  parley  or  play  at  hide-and-seek,  or  carry 
on  a  flirtation  with  the  devil,  but  either  embrace  him  or  spurn  him  at 
once.  Accordingly,  it  is  a  matter  of  common  remark  that  a  good  head 
often  saves  a  man  from  a  bad  heart,  or  a  good  heart  from  a  bad  head  ; 
but  that  in  woman  both  head  and  heart  generally  are  good  or  bad 
together,  so  that  she  can  never  fall  back  upon  the  one  to  save  herself 


APPENDIX.  95 

from  the  tendencies  of  the  other.  This  oneness  and  entireness  of  move- 
ment, this  perfect  freedom  from  the  disharmony  of  conflicting  impulses, 
makes  Lady  Macbeth  as  feminine  as  she  is  wicked,  and  even  makes  her 
appear  more  feminine  the  wickeder  she  becomes.  But  she  stops  as 
suddenly  and  entirely  as  she  starts  ;  her  feelings  and  faculties  have  the 
same  unanimity  in  retreating  as  in  advancing.  Fearful  as  she  is  in 
wickedness,  she  becomes  equally  pitiable  in  wretchedness,  leaving  pity 
and  terror  to  contend  for  the  writing  of  her  epitaph.  Her  freedom,  how- 
ever, from  nervous  and  intellectual  irritability,  secures  her  against  spill- 
ing the  secret  of  her  guilt :  subject  to  no  fantastical  terrors  nor  moral 
illusions,  she  never  in  the  least  loses  her  self-con troul.  The  fearful  cease- 
less corrodings  of  her  rooted  sorrow  may  destroy,  but  cannot  betray  her, 
unless  when  the  sense  of  her  senses  is  shut  in  sleep.  Her  profound 
silence  respecting  '  the  perilous  stuff  which  weighs  upon  the  heart, '  makes 
an  impression  which  all  attempt  at  utterance  would  but  weaken.  We 
feel  that  beneath  it  lies  a  depth  of  woe  and  horror  which  can  be  disclosed 
only  by  drawing  a  veil  over  it.  *  *  *  *  An  awful  mystery,  too, 
hangs  over  the  death  of  this  woman,  which  no  imagination  can  ever 
exhaust.  We  know  not  —  the  poet  himself  appears  not  to  know  — 
whether  the  eating  back  of  her  soul  upon  itself  drives  her  to  suicidal 
violence,  or  itself  cuts  asunder  the  cords  of  her  life  ;  whether  the  gnaw- 
ings  of  the  undying  worm  kill  her,  or  she  kills  herself  in  order  to  escape 
them.  All  that  we  know  is  that  the  death  of  her  body  springs  in  some 
way  from  the  inextinguishable  life  and  the  immedicable  wound  of  her 
soul."  H.  N.  HUDSON. 


"  Mrs.  Siddons,  it  is  said,  always  maintained  that  her  own  person  was 
unsuited  to  the  part  of  Lady  Macbeth,  whom  she  regarded  as  of  a  rather 
slender,  fragile  make,  full,  indeed,  of  spirit  and  energy  and  fire,  but 
withal  exquisitely  delicate  and  feminine  in  her  composition.  On  this 
ground  I  can  understand  why  Macbeth  should  regard  and  treat  her  as 
he  does.  Such,  assuredly,  is  the  woman  for  such  a  man  to  love  and 
respect,  and  whose  respect  and  love  might  be,  and  ought  to  be,  dearer 
to  him  than  life.  Were  she  the  fierce,  scolding  virago  that  she  is  gen- 
erally considered  to  be,  I  cannot  see  how  he  could  either  wish  to  pro- 
mote her  honour  or  fear  to  incur  hor  reproach.  *  *  *  *  I  can  see 
nothing  viraginous  or  Amazonian  about  her  character.  She  has  indeed 
the  ambition  to  wish  herself  unsexed,  but  she  has  not  the  power  to  unsex 
herself  except  in  words."  H.  N.  HUDSON. 


96  APPENDIX. 

IV. —  PLACES  OF  THE  ACTION  OF  MACBETH. 

THE  HEATH. — A  wild  and  dreary  plain,  called  the  Harmuir,  on  the 
borders  of  Elgin  and  Nairn,  is  assigned  as  the  place  of  the  meeting  of 
Macbeth  and  the  Weird  Sisters.  It  is  about  six  miles  west  of  Forres, 
and  is  intersected  by  the  high  road  between  Forres  and  Nairn.  The 
scene  is  made  up  of  peat  and  bog-water,  white  stones  and  bushes  of 
furze.  It  is,  at  all  times,  bleak  and  lonely  ;  but,  in  storms,  or  when  the 
fogs  trail  over  its  pathless  waste,  it  must  be  unspeakably  desolate. 

FORRES. —  This  is  a  royal  burgh,  in  the  county  of  Elgin,  or  Moray, 
and  was  such  in  the  reign  of  King  David  I.  [1124-1153],  and,  presum- 
ably, earlier.  It  lies  at  the  foot  of  the  Cluny  Hills,  on  an  old  sea- 
terrace,  not  far  from  the  mouth  of  the  river  Findhorn. 

INVERNESS. —  This  also  is  a  royal  burgh,  and  is  the  capital  of  the 
Highlands  of  Scotland.  Its  surroundings  are  beautiful.  Its  first  charter 
was  granted  by  King  William  the  Lion  [1165-1214].  "  Boece  declares 
that  Macbeth's  castle,  in  which  Duncan  was  murdered,  was  that  which 
stood  on  a'n  eminence  to  the  south-west  of  the  town."  Duncan's  son 
Malcolm  razed  that  castle  to  the  ground,  and  built  another,  on  a  differ- 
ent part  of  the  hill.  This  also  has  disappeared.  Knight  says  that  the 
forts  and  castles  of  Macbeth's  time  were  built  of  timber  and  sods  — 
which  crumbled  away,  ages  ago. 

GLAMIS  AND  CAWDOR. — Glamis  Castle  is  about  five  miles  from 
Forfar,  within  view  of  Birnam  Hill.  Cawdor  Castle  is  about  six  miles 
from  Nairn.  Poetic  superstition,  of  course,  connects  the  name  of  Mac- 
beth with  both  of  them. 

ST.  COLMES'  INCH.— Meaning  St.  Columba's  Island.  It  lies  in  the 
Firth  of  Forth,  off  the  coast  of  Fife.  A  monastery  was  founded  there  by 
Alexander  I. 

COLMES'  KILL.— Meaning  Saint  Columba's  Cell.  This  is  in  the 
Island  of  lona,  off  the  west  coast  of  Argyle.  It  was  the  burial-place  of 
•many  ancient  Scottish  kings.  A  monastery  was  established  there  about 
.-63,  but  was  devastated  in  1561.  Tradition  says  that  both  Duncan  and 
Macbeth  were  buried  at  lona. 

SCONE. —  This,  from  973  to  1040,  was  a  residence  of  the  kings  of 
Scotland,  who,  indeed,  were  crowned  there,  on  a  sacred  stone  —  now 
in  the  seat  of  a  chair,  in  Westminster  Abbey,  whither  it  was  brought,  by- 
Edward  I.,  in  1296  — which  is  said  to  have  been  the  pillow  of  Jacob, 
when  he  dreamed,  and  beheld  the  angels,  on  the  plain  of  Luz.  This 


APPENDIX.  97 

stone  is  still  used  in  British  coronation  ceremonials.  Scone  was  situated 
two  miles  north  of  Perth.  Nothing  remains  of  it  but  an  aisle  of  its 
ruined  abbey,  founded  in  838,  and  a  few  crumbling  houses. 

DUNSINANE.— One  of  the  Sidlaw  Hills,  situated  in  the  eastern  part 
of  Perthshire.  It  is  1114  feet  high.  On  the  top  of  it  are  the  remains  of 
an  ancient  fortification,  popularly  called  Macbeth's  Castle.  Dunsinane 
is  seven  miles  from  Perth. 

BIRNAM  is  another  of  the  Sidlaws,  and  is  twelve  miles  distant  from 
Dunsinane.  It  is  near  Dunkeld,  and  it  commands  a  fine  view  of  the 
valley  of  the  Tay.  In  former  times  it  was  covered  by  an  ancient  royal 
forest.  W.  W. 

V. — THE  WITCHES  IN  MACBETH. 

'•The  Weird  Sisters  and  all  that  belongs  to  them  are  but  poetical 
impersonations  of  evil  influences :  they  are  the  imaginative,  irresponsi- 
ble agents  or  instruments  of  the  devil ;  capable  of  inspiring  guilt,  but 
not  of  incurring  it ;  in  and  through  whom  all  the  powers  of  their  chief 
seem  bent  up  to  the  accomplishment  of  a  given  purpose.  But  with  all 
their  essential  wickedness  there  is  nothing  gross  or  vulgar  or  sensual 
about  them.  They  are  the  very  purity  of  sin  incarnate  ;  the  vestal 
virgins,  so  to  speak,  of  hell ;  radiant  with  a  sort  of  inverted  holiness  ; 
fearful  anomalies  in  body  and  soul,  in  whom  everything  seems  reversed ; 
whose  elevation  is  downwards;  whose  duty  is  sin;  whose  religion  is 
wickedness  ;  and  the  law  of  whose  being  is  violation  of  law  !  Unlike 
the  furies  of  Eschylus,  they  are  petrific,  not  to  the  senses,  but  to  the 
thoughts.  At  first,  indeed,  on  merely  looking  at  them,  we  can  hardly 
keep  from  laughing,  so  uncouth  and  grotesque  is  their  appearance  ;  but 
afterwards,  on  looking  into  them,  we  find  them  terrible  beyond  descrip- 
tion; and  the  more  we  look  into  them,  the  more  terrible  do  they  become. 
*  *  *  *  \Ve  cannot  act  without  motives,  *  *  *  *  yet  the  cause 
of  our  acting  lies  in  certain  powers  and  principles  within  us.  * 
Motives  can  avail  but  little,  without  something  to  be  moved.  *  *  *  * 
In  Macbeth  and  Lady  Macbeth  the  Weird  Sisters  find  minds  pre- 
configured  and  pre-attempered  to  their  influences  ;  and  their  success 
seems  owing  to  the  fact  that  the  hearts  of  their  victims  were  already  open 
to  welcome  and  entertain  their  suggestions.  *  *  *  *  Macbeth, 
doubtless,  had  will  enough  before  ;  but  nothing  short  of  supernatural 
agencies  could  furnish  the  motives  to  develop  his  will  into  act.  *  *  *  * 
Hence  the  necessity  of  the  Weird  Sisters  to  the  rational  accomplishment 
of  the  poet's  design."  H.  N.  HUDSON. 

7 


98  APPENDIX. 

"  In  consequence  of  the  Fall,  and  man's  universal  sinfulness,  his 
power  to  will  and  to  do  is,  by  nature,  tainted  ;  it  is  powerless  for  good, 
and  strong  only  for  evil,  so  long  as  he  refuses,  not  only  to  acknowledge 
or  regret,  but  to  atone  for  his  otherwise  incurable  corruption,  by 
becoming  a  partaker  in  the  divine  grace.  And  not  only  is  the  human 
mind  thus  given  over  to  evil ;  but,  inasmuch  as  man  is  the  organic  centre 
and  culminating  point  of  the  whole  earthly  creation,  even  the  powers  of 
nature  —  between  which  and  himself  an  intimate  and  essential  connection 
subsists  of  action  and  re-action  —  must,  of  necessity,  proceed  with  him  in 
the  same  course.  The  evil  which  has  struck  so  deep  a  root  within  him- 
self meets  him  again  from  without,  in  the  powers  and  elements  of 
nature,  with  a  tempting  and  seductive  attraction.  And  again,  the 
undeniable  though  dark  and  mysterious  connection  between  this  life 
and  the  next,  constrains  us  to  ascribe  to  the  spiritual  world  a  certain 
influence  on  the  spirits  as  yet  embodied  on  this  earth.  In  this  truth  lies 
the  profound  meaning  of  the  Christian  doctrine  of  devils  and  evil  spirits. 
*  *  *  *  Shakespeare's  witches  are  a  hybrid  progeny  :  partly  rulers 
of  nature,  and  belonging  to  the  nocturnal  body  of  this  earthly  creation  ; 
partly  human  spirits,  fallen  from  their  original  innocence,  and  deeply 
sunk  in  evil.  They  are  the  fearful  echo  which  the  natural  and  spiritual 
world  gives  back  to  the  evil  which  sounds  forth  from  the  human  breast 
itself — eliciting  it,  helping  it  to  unfold  and  mature  itself  into  the  evil 
purpose  and  the  wicked  deed."  DR.  HERMANN  ULRICI. 


VI.— THE  KNOCKING  AT  THE  GATE  IN  MACBETH. 

"  Murder,  in  ordinary  cases,  where  the  sympathy  is  wholly  directed 
to  the  case  of  the  murdered  person,  is  an  incident  of  coarse  and  vulgar 
horror ;  and  for  this  reason,  that  it  flings  the  interest  exclusively  upon 
the  natural,  but  ignoble,  instinct  by  which  we  cleave  to  life  ;  an  instinct 
which,  as  being  indispensable  to  the  primal  law  of  self-preservation,  is 
the  same  in  kind  (though  different  in  degree)  amongst  all  living  creat- 
ures :  this  instinct,  therefore,  because  it  annihilates  all  distinctions,  and 
degrades  the  greatest  of  men  to  the  level  of  '  the  poor  beetle  that  we 
tread  on,'  exhibits  human  nature  in  its  most  abject  and  humiliating 
attitude.  Such  an  attitude  would  little  suit  the  purposes  of  the  poet. 
What  then  must  he  do  ?  He  must  throw  the  interest  on  the  murderer. 
Our  sympathy  must  be  with  him  (of  course  I  mean  a  sympathy  of  com- 
prehension, a  sympathy  by  which  we  enter  into  his  feelings,  and  are 
made  to  understand  them, — not  a  sympathy  of  pity  or  approbation). 


APPENDIX.  99 

In  the  murdered  person,  all  strife  of  thought,  all  flux  and  reflux  of 
passion  and  of  purpose,  are  crushed  by  one  overwhelming  panic ;  the 
fear  of  instant  death  smites  him  '  with  its  petrific  mace.'  But  in  the 
murderer,  such  a  murderer  as  a  poet  will  condescend  to,  there  must  be 
raging  some  great  storm  of  passion — jealousy,  ambition,  vengeance, 
hatred  —  which  will  create  a  hell  within  him  ;  and  into  this  hell  we  are 
to  look. 

"  In  '  Macbeth,'  for  the  sake  of  gratifying  his  own  enormous  and  teem- 
ing faculty  of  creation,  Shakespeare  has  introduced  two  murderers  ;  and, 
as  usual  in  his  hands,  they  are  remarkably  discriminated  ;  but,  though 
in  Macbeth  the  strife  of  mind  is  greater  than  in  his  wife,  the  tiger  spirit 
not  so  awake,  and  his  feelings  caught  chiefly  by  contagion  from  her, — 
yet,  as  both  were  finally  involved  in  the  guilt  of  murder,  the  murderous 
mind,  of  necessity,  is  finally  to  be  presumed  in  both.  This  was  to  be 
expressed ;  and  on  its  own  account,  as  well  as  to  make  it  a  more 
proportionable  antagonist  to  the  unoffending  nature  of  their  victim, 
'  the  gracious  Duncan,'  and  adequately  to  expound  'the  deep  damna- 
tion of  his  taking  off,'  this  was  to  be  expressed  with  peculiar  energy. 
We  were  to  be  made  to  feel  that  the  human  nature,  *.  e.,  the  divine  nature 
of  love  and  mercy,  spread  through  the  hearts  of  all  creatures,  and  seldom 
utterly  withdrawn  from  man  —  was  gone,  vanished,  extinct ;  and  that 
the  fiendish  nature  had  taken  its  place.  *  *  *  *  The  retiring  of  the 
human  heart  and  the  entrance  of  the  fiendish  heart  was  to  be  expressed 
and  made  sensible.  Another  world  has  stept  in  ;  and  the  murderers 
are  taken  out  of  the  region  of  human  things,  human  purposes,  human 
desires.  They  are  transfigured:  Lady  Macbeth  is  'unsexed  ; '  Macbeth 
has  forgot  that  he  was  born  of  woman  ;  both  are  conformed  to  the 
image  of  devils  ;  and  the  world  of  devils  is  suddenly  revealed.  But  how 
shall  this  be  conveyed  and  made  palpable  ?  In  order  that  a  new  world 
may  step  in,  this  world  must  for  a  time  disappear.  The  murderers, 
and  the  murder  must  be  insulated  —  cut  off  by  an  immeasurable  gulf 
from  the  ordinary  tide  and  succession  of  human  affairs  —  locked  up  and 
sequestered  in  some  deep  recess ;  we  must  be  made  sensible  that  the 
world  of  ordinary  life  is  suddenly  arrested  —  laid  asleep  —  tranced  — 
racked  into  a  dread  armistice;  time  must  be  annihilated;  relation  to 
things  without  abolished  ;  and  all  must  pass  self-withdrawn  into  a  deep 
syncope  and  suspension  of  earthly  passion.  Hence  it  is  that  when  the 
deed  is  done,  when  the  work  of  darkness  is  perfect,  then  the  world  of 
darkness  passes  away  like  a  pageantry  in  the  clouds :  the  knocking 
at  the  gate  is  heard ;  and  it  makes  known  audibly  that  the  reaction  has 
commenced ;  the  human  has  made  its  reflux  upon  the  fiendish ;  the 


I OO  APPENDIX. 

pulses  of  life  are  beginning  to  beat  again  ;  and  the  re-establishment 
of  the  goings-on  of  the  world  in  which  we  live  first  makes  us  pro- 
foundly sensible  of  the  awful  parenthesis  that  has  suspended  them." 

THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY. 

VII. —  COSTUME  AND  APPOINTMENTS  FOR  MACBETH. 

The  subjoined  particulars  are  condensed  from  an  article  by  Charles 
Knight,  on  the  dresses  and  appointments  proper  to  be  used  —  of  course, 
with  due  consideration  of  the  privileges  of  poetry  —  in  the  representation 
of  "Macbeth:  " 

The  rudely  sculptured  monuments  and  crosses  which  time  has  spared 
upon  the  hills  and  heaths  of  Scotland  afford  but  very  slender  and  uncer- 
tain information  respecting  the  dress  and  arms  of  the  Scotch  Highlanders 
of  the  eleventh  century.  The  dress,  as  at  present  worn,  is  compounded 
of  three  varieties  in  the  form  of  dress  which  were,  separately,  worn  by 
the  Highlanders  in  the  seventeenth  century  ;  and  each  of  these  varieties 
may  be  traced  back  to  the  remotest  antiquity.  These  are :  ist,  The 
belted  plaid;  and,  The  short  coat  or  jacket ;  3rd,  Thetruis.  With  each 
of  these  —  or,  at  any  rate,  with  the  first  and  second  —  was  worn,  from  the 
earliest  periods  to  the  seventeenth  century,  the  long-sleeved,  saffron- 
stained  shirt,  of  Irish  origin,  called  the  Leni-croich  —  from  the  Irish 
words  lent,  shirt,  and  crotch,  saffron.  Knight  quotes  Piscottie  [1573], 
and  Nicolay  d'Arfeville,  cosmographer  to  the  King  of  France  [1583]. 
The  Scotch  Highlanders,  says  the  former,  "  be  cloathed  with  ane  mantle, 
with  ane  schirt,  saffroned,  after  the  Irish  manner,  going  bare-legged  to 
the  knee."  "  They  wear,"  says  the  latter,  "  like  the  Irish,  a  large,  fuU 
shirt,  coloured  with  saffron,  and  over  this  a  garment  hanging  to  the 
knee,  of  thick  wool,  after  the  manner  of  a  cassock.  They  go  with  bare 
heads,  and  allow  their  hair  to  grow  very  long,  and  they  wear  neither 
stockings  nor  shoes,  except  some  who  have  buskins,  made  in  a  very  old 
fashion,  which  come  as  high  as  the  knees."  Lesley  [1578],  also  quoted 
by  Knight,  says  :  "  Both  nobles  and  common  people  wore  mantles  of  one 
sort  —  except  that  the  nobles  preferred  those  of  different  colours.  These 
were  long  and  flowing,  but  capable  of  being  gathered  up  at  pleasure 
into  folds.  They  had  also  shaggy  rugs,  such  as  the  Irish  use  at  the 
present  day.  The  rest  of  their  garments  consisted  of  a  short  woolen 
jacket,  with  the  sleeves  open  below,  for  the  convenience  of  throwing 
their  darts,  and  a  covering  for  the  thighs,  of  the  simplest  kind,  more  for 
decency  than  for  show  or  defence  against  cold.  They  made  also  of 
linen  very  large  shirts,  with  numerous  folds  and  very  large  sleeves, 


APPENDIX.  101 

which  flowed  abroad  loosely  on  their  knees.  These  the  rich  coloured 
with  saffron,  and  others  smeared  with  some  grease  to  preserve  them 
longer  clean  among  the  toils  and  exercises  of  a  camp."  This  confirms 
the  identity  of  the  ancient  Scottish  with  the  ancient  Irish  dress  ;  as  the 
Irish  chieftains  who  appeared  at  court  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  were 
clad  in  these  long  shirts,  short,  open-sleeved  jackets,  and  long,  shaggy 
mantles.  The  truis,  or  trowse,  is  "the  breeches  and  stockings  of  one 
piece."  of  the  Irish  in  the  time  of  Giraldus  Cambrensis,  and  thebracchae 
of  the  Belgic  Gauls  and  Southern  Britons  in  that  of  Caesar.  It  was  an 
established  Highland  garment  as  far  back  as  1538,  and  therefore  we  may 
infer  that  it  had  long  previously  existed.  A  similar  garment,  it  is  certain, 
was  worn  by  the  chiefs  of  all  the  other  tribes  of  the  great  Celtic  or  Gaelic 
family  ;  and  this  fact  gives  probability  to  the  belief  that  it  was  also  worn 
by  those  of  the  ancient  Scotch  Highlanders.  Skene,  author  of  "  The 
Highlanders  of  Scotland,"  says  that  the  truis  was  from  the  very  earliest 
period  the  dress  of  the  gentry  of  Ireland,  and  that  he  is  inclined  to  think 
it  was  introduced  into  Scotland  from  that  country ;  and  Knight  thinks 
that  this  introduction  may  have  taken  place  even  centuries  before  the 
birth  of  Macbeth.  The  question  whether  the  ancient  Scottish  High- 
landers wore  the  many-coloured  tartan,  or  plaid,  is  unsettled.  The 
probability  is  that  they  did.  Tartan  was,  originally,  the  name  of  a 
woolen  stuff,  and  plaid  was  the  name  of  the  garment  that  was  made  of 
it.  The  Celtic  Britons  and  the  Belgic  Gauls,  according  to  Diodorus 
Siculus,  wore  a  tunic,  "  flowered  with  various  colours  in  divisions."  The 
chequered  cloth  was  termed  in  Celtic,  breacan,  and  the  Highlanders 
calledit  "cath-dath,"  meaning  "thestrife,"  or  "war  of  colours."  About 
the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth  century,  the  plaids,  or  cloaks,  of  only  the 
higher  classes  were  variegated.  The  common  people  wore  plaids  of  a 
brown  colour  —  like  that  of  the  heather.  Martin,  in  1716,  speaking  of 
the  female  attire  worn  in  the  Western  Isles,  says  that  the  ancient  dress, 
which  is  still  worn  by  some  of  the  vulgar,  called  arisad,  is  a  white  plaid, 
having  a  few  small  stripes  of  black,  blue,  and  red.  The  plain  black  and 
white  stuff,  commonly  known  as  shepherd's  plaid,  is  thought  to  be  of 
great  antiquity.  It  could  easily  have  been  manufactured.  It  is  com- 
posed of  the  two  natural  colours  of  the  fleece,  and  it  required  no  process 
of  dyeing.  Defoe,  in  his  "Memoirs  of  a  Cavalier,"  describes  the  plaid 
worn  in  1639  as  "  striped  across  red  and  yellow  ;  "  and  the  portrait  of 
Lacy,  the  actor,  painted  in  the  time  of  Charles  II.,  represents  him  dressed 
for  Sawney  the  Scot,  in  a  red,  yellow,  and  black  truis,  and  belted  plaid, 
or,  in  stuff  of  the  natural  yellowish  tint  of  the  wool,  s'riped  across  with 
black  and  red. 


102  APPENDIX. 

For  the  armour  and  weapons  of  the  Scotch  of  the  eleventh  century 
there  is  more  distinct  authority.  The  sovereign  and  his  Lowland  chiefs 
appear  early  to  have  assumed  the  shirt  of  ring-mail  of  the  Saxon  ;  or, 
perhaps,  the  quilted  panzar  of  their  Norwegian  and  Danish  invaders  ; 
but  that  some  of  the  Highland  chieftains  disdained  such  defence  must 
be  admitted  from  the  well-known  boast  of  the  Earl  Strathearne,  as  late 
as  1138,  at  the  Battle  of  the  Standard  :  —  "I  wear  no  armour ;  yet  those 
who  do  will  not  advance  beyond  me  this  day."  It  was  indeed  the  old 
Celtic  fashion  for  soldiers  to  divest  themselves  of  almost  every  portion 
of  covering,  on  the  eve  of  combat,  and  to  rush  into  battle  nearly,  if  not 
entirely,  naked. 

The  ancient  Scottish  weapons  were  the  bow,  the  spear,  the  claymore, 
the  battle-axe,  and  the  dirk, —  with  round  targets  covered  with  bull's-hide 
and  studded  with  nails  and  bosses  of  brass  or  iron.  The  Scottish  female 
attire  seems  to  have  consisted,  like  that  of  the  Saxon,  Norman,  and 
Danish  women, —  we  may  even  add  the  ancient  British, —  of  a  long  robe, 
girdled  round  the  waist,  and  a  full  and  flowing  mantle,  fastened  on  the 
breast  by  a  large  buckle  or  brooch  of  brass,  silver,  or  gold,  and  set  with 
common  crystals,  or  precious  gems,  according  to  the  rank  of  the  wearer. 


"  Previously  to  this  period,  Macbeth  used  to  be  dressed  in  a  suit  of 
scarlet  and  gold,  a  tail  wig,  etc.,  in  every  respect  like  a  modern  military 
officer.  Garrick  always  played  it  in  this  manner ;  and  the  fine  picture 
of  him  and  Mrs.  Pritchard,  in  Macbeth  and  Lady  Macbeth,  after  the 
murder,  painted  by  Zoffani,  exhibits  him  in  this  dress.  Barry  and  Smith 
dressed  it  in  a  similar  manner  ;  and  it  long  stood  as  the  general  costume 
of  the  stage.  Macklin,  however,  whose  eye  and  mind  were  ever  intent 
on  his  profession,  saw  the  absurdity  of  exhibiting  a  Scotch  character, 
existing  many  years  before  the  Norman  conquest,  in  this  manner,  and, 
therefore,  very  properly  abandoned  it  for  the  old  Caledonian  habit.  He 
showed  the  same  attention  to  the  subordinate  characters,  as  well  as  to 
the  scenes,  decorations,  music  and  other  incidental  parts  of  the  perform- 
ance."— COOKE'S  LIFE  OF  MACKLIN,  pp.  283-4. 


Macklin's  appearance  as  Macbeth  was  made  on  October  23d,  1772,  at 
Covent  Garden,  in  London.  His  personation  was  not  considered  extra- 
ordinary. He  was,  however,  the  first  to  dress  the  part  correctly.  John 
Philip  Kemble  —  who,  as  Othello,  wore  the  uniform  of  a  British  gen- 


APPENDIX.  103 

eral  —  decorated  the  bonnet  of  Macbeth  with  a  hearse-like  plume  —  till 
Sir  Walter  Scott  drew  it  out  and  substituted  for  it  an  eagle's  feather. 

W.  W. 

VIII. — ANECDOTES  OF  MACBETH. 

"  It  is  said  that  one  night  when  he  [Garrick]  was  performing  Macbeth 
and  the  murderer  entered  the  banquet  scene,  Garrick  looked  at  him  with 
such  an  expressive  countenance,  and  uttered  with  such  energy,  '  There  's 

blood  upon  thy  face,'  that  the  actor  said,  '  Is  there,  by ?'  instead 

of,  '  'T  is  Banquo's,  then ' ;  thinking,  as  he  afterwards  acknowledged, 
that  he  had  broken  a  blood-vessel."— JOHN  TAYLOR.  "RECORDS  OF 
MY  LIFE,"  p.  196. 

Mrs.  Siddons  was  of  the  opinion  that  the  Ghost  of  Banquo  is  seen  by 
Lady  Macbeth  as  well  as  by  Macbeth.  There  is,  however,  nothing  in 
the  text  to  warrant  this  view.  It  is  related  also  that,  in  acting  Lady 
Macbeth,  she  used  to  give  a  scream, —  amounting  to  a  perfect  yell  of 
horror, —  by  way  of  climax  to  the  speech,  which  ends  — 

"  The  raven  himself  is  hoarse, 

That  croaks  the  fatal  entrance  of  Duncan 

Under  my  battlements." 


IX.— THE  DRIFT  OF  MACBETH. 

The  facts  and  thoughts  which  have  been  presented  seem,  so  far  as  I 
can  judge,  to  cover  the  whole  field  of  inquiry  which  is  opened  by  this 
great  play.  It  remains  only  for  the  editor  to  state  that  he  must  not  be 
supposed  to  concur  in  every  word  that  he  quotes.  The  object  sought  is 
the  illumination  of  the  piece  for  the  benefit  of  actors.  The  material  here 
collected  and  condensed  will,  perhaps,  help  them  in  their  work.  A  point 
worthy  to  be  urged  upon  their  constant  remembrance  is  the  necessity  of 
acting  "  Macbeth  "  in  the  purest  poetical  spirit  and  manner.  It  would  be 
an  error  to  go  back  of  Shakespeare's  conception,  and  strive  to  galvanize 
into  life  the  Macbeth  of  the  old  chronicle  history.  The  grandest  inter- 
pretation that  can  be  put  upon  Shakespeare  is  always  nearest  to  the 
truth.  The  student  discovers  still  increasing  greatness  in  this  marvellous 
poet's  creations  ;  he  does  not  endow  them  with  it.  Macbeth  is  a  man  of 
noble  mind,  vast  imagination,  indomitable  valour,  and  imperial  individu- 
ality, and  he  does  not  lack  tenderness  of  heart ;  but  he  is  also  prone  to 


104  APPENDIX. 

evil ;  and,  in  a  dark  moment,  he  is  seized,  possessed,  dragged  down, 
and  despoiled  by  those  tremendous  forces  of  sin  which  contend  with 
goodness  throughout  the  essence  of  universal  life.  The  crimes  that  he 
then  commits  are  not  the  crimes  of  a  cruel  ruffian,  but  of  a  great  man 
whose  nature  has  been  inverted,  polluted,  and  partly  crazed.  The 
tortures  of  remorse  begin  to  tear  his  heart  even  before  he  smites  the 
king;  and,  afterwards,  his  life  is  a  horrible  delirium,  necked  here  and 
there  with  clear  moments  of  settled  misery  and  pathetic  dejection,  upon 
a  lonely  and  awful  eminence  of  evil.  The  blood  upon  which  he  floats 
his  kingdom  is  not  exclusively  of  his  own  shedding.  A  hellish  agency 
of  the  world  of  fiends  enwraps  his  mind  and  impels  his  actions ;  and  so 
the  life  which  otherwise  would  be  that  of  a  ruthless,  bloody-minded 
brute,  becomes  wild  and  awful  with  the  frenzy  of  a  haunted  imagination, 
and  infinitely  pathetic  with  remorseful  but  useless  struggles  against  the 
promptings  of  hell.  To  present  this  personality  is  to  exalt  the  whole 
moral  being  of  mankind,  and  to  strike  the  soul  with  terror,  pity  and 
awe.  In  the  fall  of  a  star  out  of  heaven  there  is  a  vast  and  nameless 
grandeur.  A  lower  ideal  would  rob  the  play  of  all  its  investiture  of 
sublimity.  The  character  of  Lady  Macbeth  impresses  me  as  narrower 
and  really  weaker  than  that  of  her  husband  ;  certainly  as  less  complex, 
less  picturesque,  less  interesting,  and  less  difficult  both  to  grasp  and 
convey.  She  has  no  prescience,  and  but  little  imagination ;  but  she  is 
woman-like  and  finely  conscientious,  so  that  she  suffers  terribly  and  is 
killed  by  remorse.  Together, — as  contemplated,  for  example,  after  the 
scene  of  the  royal  banquet, — they  present  a  type,  consummate  and 
unrivalled  in  all  literature,  of  the  supreme  sublimity  and  pathos  of  utter 
desolation.  The  meaning  and  drift  of  the  whole  work  could  not  be 
better  said  than  in  the  words  of  Ulrici :  "The  evil  influence  of  crime, 
coiled  within  the  fairest  flowers,  spreads  over  the  whole  circle  of  human 
existence,  not  only  working  the  doom  of  the  criminal  himself,  but  scat- 
tering far  and  wide  the  seeds  of  destruction ;  but,  nevertheless,  the 
deadly  might  of  evil  is  overcome  by  the  love  and  justice  of  God,  and 
good  at  last  is  enthroned  as  the  conqueror  of  the  world." 

W.  W. 
NEW-YORK,  October  8,  1878 


KING  LEAR 


VOL.   I 


*~T^HE  propriety  of  an  effort  to  aid  in  restoring  Shakes- 
•*•  peare's  "King  Lear"  to  practical  use  upon  the  stage  is 
not  likely  to  be  questioned.  Persons  ivho  have  thoughtfully 
studied  the  subject  must,  indeed,  marvel  that  such  an  effort, 
long  ago  begun,  -was  not  long  ago  crowned  with  bounteous 
public  acceptance.  The  distortion  of  Shakespeare's  colossal 
tragedy,  blandly  perpetrated  by  Nahiim  Tate  about  two 
centuries  ago,  and,  with  some  modifications,  current  in  the 
theatre  ever  since,  instantly  discloses  itself,  upon  a  comparison 
of  it  with  the  original,  as  emasculate,  squalid  and  commonplace 
— in  contrast  with  the  stahvart  fibre,  massive  proportions, 
and  stupendous  altitude  of  Shakespeare's  own  work.  Tate's 
version  was  published,  in  quarto,  in  1681, — seventy-five  years 
after  the  first  performance  of  "  King  Lear"  and  in  those 
frivolous  days  of  British  literature  when  Shakespeare's 
genius  was  in  eclipse.  The  dedication  of  it,  to  "Tho.  Boteler, 
Esq."  contains  these  words  :  "  I  found  that  the  new-model- 
ling of  this  story  would  force  me  sometimes  on  the  difficult 
task  of  making  the  chiefest  persons  speak  something  like  their 
character,  or  matter  whereof  I  had  no  ground  in  my  author. 
*  *  *  I  found  the  whole  to  answer  your  account  of  it,  a 
heap  of  jewels  unstrung  and  unpolished,  yet  so  dazzling  in 
their  disorder  that  I  soon  perceived  I  had  seized  a  treasure." 


The  complacent  Tate  then  felicitates  himself  that  he  has  "had 
the  good  fortune  to  light  on  one  expedient  to  rectify  what  was 
wanting  in  the  regularity  and  probability  of  the  tale" — by 
which  he  means  the  omission  of  the  Fool !  It  was  easy  for 
him,  after  that,  to  fabricate  an  wider-plot  respecting  the  loves 
of  Edgar  and  Cordelia,  and  to  save  Cordelia  and  Lear  alive 
at  the  end  of  the  play,  with  a  rainbow  prospect  of  happiness 
and  comfort.  Nothing  respecting  this  subject  could  be  more 
remarkable  than  the  mental  attitude  thus  revealed ;  except 
it  be  the  after-glow  of  prosperity  which  has  so  long  attended 
this  petty  and  finical  display  of  a  creation  entirely  gigantic. 
The  best  critical  judgment  long  since  protested  against  it. 
"King  Lear"  said  Addison  [Spectator,  Number  40],  "  is  an 
admirable  tragedy,  as  Shakespeare  wrote  it ;  but  as  it  is 
re-formed,  according  to  the  chimerical  notions  of  poetical  jus- 
tice, it  has  lost  half  its  beauty."  "Tate  put  his  hook  in 
the  nostrils  of  this  leviathan,"  said  Charles  Lamb,  "for 
Garrick  and  his  followers,  the  showmen  of  the  scene,  to 
draw  the  mighty  beast  about  more  easily."  Steei'ens  and 
Johnson  alone,  of  all  the  old  critics,  were  content  with  what 
Charles  Knight,  with  felicitous  contempt,  denominates  the 
Tatefication  of  Shakespeare.  All  the  same,  the  piece,  thus 
garbled,  kept  its  place.  Tate  was  acted  by  Garrick,  the 
great  Lear  of  the  last  century,  and  Tate  was  acted  by 
Forrest,  tJie  great  Lear  of  the  generation  that  has  just  ended. 
Sei'eral  improvements,  it  should  be  said,  have,  from  time  to 
time,  been  grafted  upon  this  basis.  George  Column  made  an 
alteration  of  Tate's  alteration,  which  was  acted  a  few  times, 
at  Covent  Garden,  London,  and  was  published  in  1768  : 
and  John  Philip  Kemble  made  another,  which  was  a/so 
acted  at  Cove/it  Garden,  and  which  was  published  in  1808. 
The  latter,  in  one  for,;;  <  /-  another,  has  served  the  art  needs 


of  most  of  Kemble's  successors.  Dramatic  custom  of  late 
years  has  exhibited  a  tendency  towards  the  restoration  of 
Shakespeare.  Macready  and  Charles  Kean  acted  Shakes- 
peare's Lear,  and  more  recently,  Shakespeare's  Lear  has  been 
acted  by  Barrett  and  McCullough.  Macready's  opinion  of 
Tate's  piece  was  expressed  in  the  vigourous  statement  that  it 
is  a  "  miserable  debilitation  and  disfigurement  of  Shakes- 
peare's sublime  tragedy"  The  present  version, —  which 
follows  the  plan  and  contains  the  stage  directions  of 
Edwin  Booth, — if  not  literally  the  original,  is  a  faithful 
condensation  of  it.  Omissions  and  transpositions  will  be 
observed ;  but,  to  re -arrange,  for  a  stage  that  is  furnished 
with  abundant  scenes,  a  play  which  was  written  for  a  stage 
that  had  no  scenes  at  all, —  not  to  urge  the  expedient  due  of 
a  public  taste  ivhich  craves  directness,  and  is  intolerant  of 
ei<en  the  semblance  of  prolixity, — is  surely  not  to  use  it  with 
unwarrantable  freedom.  The  text  of  this  version  is  entirely 
Shakespeare ;  the  Fool  occupies  his  rightful  place  in  the 
action, — to  which  he  supplies  a  most  strange,  wistful 
element  of  lamentable  mirth  ;  and  the  story  is  unmarred 
by  change.  "  King  Lear  "  was  first  acted,  December  26th, 
1606,  at  Whitehall,  in  London.  The  dramatic  company  of 
the  Globe  Theatre,  Southwark,  presented  it,  and  King 
James  I.  was  its  predominant  auditor.  There  can  never 
come  a  time  when  it  will  cease  to  irradiate  the  imagination 
and  melt  t/ie  heart  of  the  world. 

W.  W. 
New-  York,  March  2^t/i,  1878. 


"Once  again  the  fierce  dispute 
Betwixt  hell  torment  and  impassioned  clay 
Must  I  burn  through." — KEATS. 


' '  The  finest  of  Shakespeare's  imaginary  characters  are  essentially  typical. 
While  they  embody  truths  the  most  subtle,  delicate  and  refining  in  the  life 
and  organisation  of  men,  those  truths  are  so  assorted  as  to  combine  with  the 
elements  which  humanity  has  most  in  common." — BULWER. 


"  But  who  forgets  that  white,  discrowned  head. 
Those  bursts  of  reason  s  half -extinguished  glare. 
Those  tears  upon  Cordelia  s  bosom  shed. 
In  doubt  more  touching  than  despair  I " — CAMPBELL. 


"My  life  is  spent  -with  griff,  and  my  years  with  sighing.      *  I  am 

forgotten  as  a  dead  man  out  of  mind.  I  am  like  a  broken  vessel.  *  *  * 
Horror  hath  overwhelmed  me.  *  *  *  *  I  wander  far  off ,  and  remain 
in  the  wilderness. — THE  PSALMS  OF  DAVID. 


' '  Crowned  with  wild  flowers  and  with  heather, 
Like  weak,  despised  old  Lear — 

A  king!  a  king  I " — LONGFELLOW. 


'  'Let  the  doubly  pointed  wreath  of  his  fire  be  hurled  at  me,  and  ether  be 
torn  piecemeal  by  thunder  and  spasm  of  savage  blasts ;  and  let  the  wind 
rock  earth  from  her  base,  roots  and  all,  and,  with  stormy  surge,  mingle  in 
rough  tide  the  billow  of  the  deep  and  the  paths  of  the  stars,  and  fling  my 
body  into  black  Tartarus!" — AESCHYLUS. 

"  Grief  and  care 

Stalked  forth  upon  the  theatre  of  his  heart 
In  many  a  gloomy  and  misshapen  guise  ; 
Tilt  of  the  glories  of  his  earlier  self  , 
The  world,  his  base  and  hollow  auditory, 
Left  but  a  ghastly  phantom." — MOTHERWELL. 


"All  free  from  the  knot 

Glide  the  thread  of  the  skein, 
And  rest  to  the  labour, 
And  peace  to  the  pain  !  " — BULWER. 


'Quieter  is  his  breath,  his  breast  more  cold. 

Than  daisies  in  the  mould. 
Pray  for  him,  gentle  souls,  whoe'er  you  be."— LAHDOR. 


"  '  T  is  the  infirmity  of  his  age  :  yet  he  hath  ever  but  slenderly  known 
himself. 

"The  best  and  soundest  of  his  time  hath  been  but  rash." 

"Old  fools  are  babes  again,  and  must  be  used 
With  checks  as  flatteries ." 

'  'Nature  in  you  stands  on  the  very  verge 
Of  her  confine." 


"The  hedge-sparrow  fed  the  cuckoo  so  long; 
That  it  had  its  head  bit  off  by  its  young." 

"O  let  me  not  be  mad,  not  mad,  sweet  heaven  I 
Keep  me  in  temper ;  I  would  not  be  mad." 


"O,  heavens. 

If  you  do  love  old  men,  if  your  sweet  sway 
Allow  obedience,  if  yourselves  are  old. 
Make  it  your  cause  ;  send  down  and  take  my  part." 


"  The  night  comes  on,  and  the  bleak  winds 
Do  sorely  ruffle ;  for  many  miles  about 
There 's  scarce  a  bush."1 


"Since  I  was  man, 

Suck  sheets  of  fire,  such  bursts  of  horrid  thunder. 
Such  groans  of  roaring  wind  and  rain,  I  never 
Remember  to  have  heard." 


"The  sea,  with  such  a  storm  as  his  bare  head. 
In  hell-black  night  endured,  would  have  buoyed  up 
And  quenched  the  stellar  fires." 

"I  am  a  very  foolish,  fond  old  man, 
Fourscore  and  upward ;  not  an  hour  more  nor  less  : 
And,  to  deal  plainly, 
I  fear  I  am  not  in  my  perfect  mind." 


"Come,  let 's  away  to  prison  : 
We  two  alone  will  sing  like  birds  /"  the  cage  : 
When  thou  dost  ask  me  blessing,  I  'II  kneel  down 
And  ask  of  the e  forgiveness  :  so  we' II  live. 
And  pray,  and  sing,  and  tell  old  tales,  and  laugh 
At  gilded  Butter/lies. ' ' 

'  'Men  must  endure 

Their  going  hence,  even  as  their  coming  hither. 
Ripeness  is  all. 


£epre$entefe. 


LEAR,  KING  OF  BRITAIN. 

KING  OF  FRANCE. 

DUKE  OF  BURGUNDY. 

DUKE  OF  CORNWALL. 

DUKE  OF  ALBANY. 

EARL  OF  KENT. 

EARL  OF  GLOSTER. 

EDGAR,  legitimate  son  to  Gloster. 

EDMUND,  illegitimate  son  to  Gloster. 

CURAN. 

OLD  MAN. 
PHYSICIAN. 
FOOL. 

OSWALD,  steward  to  Goneril. 
HERALD. 
GONERIL.     ~\ 

REGAN.          J-  Daughters  to  King  Lear. 
CORDELIA.   J 

KNIGHTS,    attending   on   King  Lear ;    LORDS,    OFFICERS, 
SOLDIERS,  MESSENGERS,  and  ATTENDANTS. 

* 

SCENE. — Ancient  Britain  j  the  southern  part  of  the  country, 
ranging  through  the  counties  from  Somerset  to  Kent. 

PERIOD. — Anno  Mundi,  3105  ;   or  about  goo  years  B.  C. 
TIME  OF  ACTION. — About  six  weeks. — See  Appendix. 


KING   LEAR 


(  A     ROOM     OF     STATE     IN     KlNG     LEAR'S 

Scene  Jtrst,  <      PALACE.    THRONE  c.     KENT  L.,  GLOS- 
(     TER  c.  AND  EDMUND  R.  c.,  DISCOVERED. 

Kent,  [L. 

I  thought  the  king  had  more  affected  the  Duke  of 
Albany  than  Cornwall. 

Glos.  [c. 

It  did  always  seem  so  to  us :  but  now,  in  the  division  of 
the  kingdom,  it  appears  not  which  of  the  dukes  he  values 
most;  for  qualities  are  so  weighed  that  curiosity  in 
neither  can  make  choice  of  cither's  moiety. 

Kent. 
Is  not  this  your  son,  my  lord  ? 

Glos. 

His  breeding,  sir,  hath  been  at  my  charge.  I  have  so 
often  blushed  to  acknowledge  him,  that  now  I  am  brazed 
to  it.  Do  you  know  this  noble  gentleman,  Edmund  ? 

Edm.  [R. 

No,  my  lord. 

Glos. 

My  lord  of  Kent:  remember  him  hereafter  as  my 
honourable  friend. 


10  KING    LEAR. 

Edm.  [To  Kent. 

My  services  to  your  lordship. 

Kent. 
I  must  love  you,  and  sue  to  know  you  better. 

Edm. 
Sir,  I  shall  study  deserving. 

Glos. 

He  hath  been  out  nine  years,  and  away  he  shall  again. 

[Music :  A  March. 
The  king  is  coming. 

[Enter  Lear,  Cornwall,  Albany,   Goneril,  Regan, 
Cordelia,  and  attendants. 

Lear. 
Gloster,  attend  the  lords  of  France  and  Burgundy. 

Glos. 
I  shall,  my  liege. 

[Exeunt  Gloster  and  Edmund  R.  u.  E. 

Lear. 

Meantime  we  shall  express  our  darker  purpose. 

Give  me  the  map  there.  —  Know  that  we  have  divided, 

In  three,  our  kingdom :  and  't  is  our  fast  intent 

To  shake  all  cares  and  business  from  our  age, 

Conferring  them  on  younger  strengths,  while  we 

Unburdened  crawl  toward  death. — Our  son  of  Cornwall, 

And  you,  our  no  less  loving  son  of  Albany, 

We  have  this  hour  a  constant  will  to  publish 

Our  daughters'  several  dowers,  that  future  strife 

May    be    prevented    now.     The  princes,  France  and 

Burgundy, 

Great  rivals  in  our  youngest  daughter's  love, 
Long  in  our  court  have  made  their  amorous  sojourn, 
And  here  are  to  be  answered. — Tell  me  my  daughters,— 
Since  now  we  will  divest  us,  both  of  rule, 
Interest  of  territory,  cares  of  state, — 


KING    LEAR.  II 

Which  of  you,  shall  we  say,  doth  love  us  most  ? 
That  we  our  largest  bounty  may  extend 
Where  nature  doth  with  merit  challenge. —  Goneril, 
Our  eldest-born,  speak  first. 

Gon.  [Rises  R. 

Sir,  I  love  you  more  than  word  can  wield  the  matter, 
Dearer  than  eyesight,  space  and  liberty ; 
Beyond  what  can  be  valued,  rich  or  rare ; 
No  less  than  life,  with  grace,  health,  beauty,  honour : 
As  much  as  child  e'er  loved,  or  father  found. 
A.  love  that  makes  breath  poor,  and  speech  unable ; 
Beyond  all  manner  of  so  much  I  love  you. 

Cord.  [Aside  c. 

What  shall  Cordelia  speak  ?     Love  and  be  silent. 

Lear.  [Pointing  to  map. 

Of  all  these  bounds,  even  from  this  line  to  this, 
With  shadowy  forests,  and  with  champaigns  riched, 
With  plenteous  rivers  and  wide-skirted  meads, 
We  make  thee  lady :  to  thine  and  Albany's  issues, 
Be  this  perpetual. —  What  says  our  second  daughter — 
Our  dearest  Regan,  wife  of  Cornwall  ?     Speak. 

Regan.  [L. 

I  am  made  of  that  self  metal  as  my  sister, 
And  prize  me  at  her  worth.     In  my  true  heart 
I  find  she  names  my  very  deed  of  love; 
Only  she  comes  too  short, —  that  I  profess 
Myself  an  enemy  to  all  other  joys, 
Which  the  most  precious  square  of  sense  possesses, 
And  find,  I  am  alone  felicitate 
In  your  dear  highness'  love. 

Cord.  [Aside. 

Then  poor  Cordelia ! 

And  yet  not  so,  since,  I  am  sure,  my  love  's 
More  richer  than  my  tongue. 


12  KING   LEAR. 

Lear.  [  To  Regan. 

To  thee  and  thine,  hereditary  ever, 

Remain  this  ample  third  of  our  fair  kingdom ; 

No  less  in  space,  validity,  and  pleasure, 

Than  that  conferred  on  Goneril. —  Now,  our  joy, 

\Cordelia  rises  and  goes  R. 

Although  the  last,  not  least;  to  whose  young  love 
The  vines  of  France  and  milk  of  Burgundy 
Strive  to  be  interessed ;  what  can  you  say,  to  draw 
A  third  more  opulent  than  your  sisters  ? 
Speak ! 

Cord. 
Nothing,  my  lord. 

[All  start  and  look  at  Cordelia. 

Lear. 
Nothing  ? 

Cord. 
Nothing. 

Lear. 

Nothing  will  come  of  nothing :  speak  again. 

Cord. 

Unhappy  that  I  am,  I  cannot  heave 

My  heart  into  my  mouth.    I  love  your  majesty 

According  to  my  bond ;  nor  more,  nor  less. 

Lear. 

How  ?     How,  Cordelia  ?     Mend  your  speech  a  little, 
Lest  you  may  mar  your  fortunes. 

Cord. 

Good  my  lord, 

You  have  begot  me,  bred  me,  loved  me :  I 
Return  those  duties  back  as  are  right  fit, 
Obey  you,  love  you,  and  most  honour  you. 
Why  have  my  sisters  husbands,  if  they  say 
They  love  you  all  ?     Haply,  when  I  shall  wed, 


KING    LEAR.  1$ 

That  lord,  whose  hand  must  take  my  plight,  shall  carry 
Half  my  love  with  him,  half  my  care,  and  duty. 
Sure,  I  shall  never  marry  like  my  sisters, 
To  love  my  father  all. 

Lear. 
But  goes  thy  heart  with  this  ? 

Cord. 

Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Lear. 

So  young  and  so  untender  ? 

Cord. 
So  young,  my  lord,  and  true. 

Lear. 

Truth,  then,  be  thy  dower; 

For,  by  the  sacred  radiance  of  the  sun, 

The  mysteries  of  Hecate  and  the  night ; 

By  all  the  operation  of  the  orbs, 

From  whom  we  do  exist,  and  cease  to  be, 

Here  I  disclaim  all  my  paternal  care, 

Propinquity  and  property  of  blood, 

And  as  a  stranger  to  my  heart  and  me 

Hold  thee  from  this  forever.     The  barbarous  Scythian, 

Or  he  that  makes  his  generation  messes 

To  gorge  his  appetite,  shall  to  my  bosom 

Be  as  well  neighboured,  pitied,  and  relieved, 

As  thou,  my  sometime  daughter. 

Kent.  [L. 

Good  my  liege, 

Lear. 

Peace,  Kent! 

Come  not  between  the  dragon  and  his  wrath : 
I  loved  her  most,  and  thought  to  set  my  rest 


14  KING   LEAR. 

On  her  kind  nursery. —  Hence  and  avoid  my  sight ! 

[To  Cordelia. 

So  be  my  grave  my  peace,  as  here  I  give 

Her  father's  heart  from  her !     Call  France ! 

Who  stirs  ?     Call  Burgundy ! 

[Exit  a  knight. 

Cornwall  and  Albany, 

With  my  two  daughters'  dowers  digest  this  third ; 

Let  pride,  which  she  calls  plainness,  marry  her. 

I  do  invest  you  jointly  with  my  power, 

Pre-eminence,  and  all  the  large  effects 

That  troop  with  majesty. —  Ourself,  by  monthly  course, 

With  reservation  of  an  hundred  knights, 

By  you  to  be  sustained,  shall  our  abode 

Make  with  you  by  due  turns.     Only,  we  shall  retain 

The  name  and  all  the  additions  to  a  king. 

The  sway,  revenue,  execution  of  the  rest, 

Beloved  sons,  be  yours ;  which  to  confirm, 

This  coronet  part  between  you. 

[Page,  with  crown,  advances.  Lear  takes  the 
crown  and  holds  it  above  the  heads  of  Goneril, 
Regan,  Albany  and  Cornwall,  who  kneel  in 
front  of  throne  c. 

Kent. 

Royal  Lear, 

Whom  I  have  ever  honoured  as  my  king, 
Loved  as  my  father,  as  my  master  followed, 
As  my  great  patron  thought  on  in  my  prayers, 


Lear. 
The  bow  is  bent  and  drawn,  make  from  the  shaft. 

Kent. 

Let  it  fall  rather,  though  the  fork  invade 
The  region  of  my  heart :  be  Kent  unmannerly, 
When  Lear  is  mad.     What  wouldst  thou  do,  old  man  ? 
Reverse  thy  doom; 
And  in  thy  best  consideration  check 
This  hideous  rashness  :  answer  my  life  my  judgment, 


KING   LEAR.  15 

Thy  youngest  daughter  does  not  love  thee  least ; 
Nor  are  those  empty  hearted,  whose  low  sounds 
Reverb  no  hollowness. 

Lear. 
Kent,  on  thy  life,  no  more ! 

Kent. 

My  life  I  never  held  but  as  a  pawn 

To  wage  against  thine  enemies ;  nor  fear  to  lose  it, 

Thy  safety  being  the  motive. 

Lear. 
Out  of  my  sight ! 

Kent. 

See  better,  Lear,  and  let  me  still  remain 
The  true  blank  of  thine  eye. 

Lear. 
Now,  by  Apollo ! 

Kent. 

Now,  by  Apollo,  king, 
Thou  swear'st  thy  gods  in  vain. 

Lear. 

O,  vassal !     Miscreant ! 

[Laying  his  hand  on  his  sword. 

Alb.  and  Corn.  [  To  Lear. 

Dear  sir,  forbear ! 

Kent. 
Do: 

Kill  thy  physician,  and  thy  fee  bestow 
Upon  the  foul  disease.     Revoke  thy  gift ; 
Or,  whilst  I  can  vent  clamour  from  my  throat, 
I  '11  tell  thee,  thou  dost  evil. 


1 6  KING    LEAR. 

Lear. 

Hear  me,  recreant ! 

On  thy  allegiance  hear  me. 

[Kent  kneels. 

Since  thou  hast  sought  to  make  us  break  our  vow, — 
Which  we  durst  never  yet, —  and,  with  strained  pride, 
To  come  betwixt  our  sentence  and  our  power, — 
Which  nor  our  nature  nor  our  place  can  bear, — 
Our  potency  made  good,  take  thy  reward. 
Five  days  do  we  allot  thee  for  provision 
To  shield  thee  from  diseases  of  the  world, 
And  on  the  sixth  to  turn  thy  hated  back 
Upon  our  kingdom  :  if  on  the  tenth  day  following 
Thy  banished  trunk  be  found  in  our  dominions, 
The  moment  is  thy  death.    Away  !     By  Jupiter, 
This  shall  not  be  revoked  ! 

[Kent  rises  ;  Goneril,  Regan,  Albany,  and  Corn- 
wall go  to  Lear  c. 

Kent. 

Fare  thee  well,  king ;  since  thus  thou  wilt  appear, 
Freedom  lives  hence,  and  banishment  is  here. 

[Crosses  R.  to  Cordelia. 

The  gods  to  their  dear  shelter  take  thee,  maid, 
That  justly  thinks,  and  hast  most  rightly  said. 
And  your  large  speeches  may  your  deeds  approve, 

[  To  Regan  and  Goneril. 

That  good  effects  may  spring  from  words  of  love. 
Thus  Kent,  O,  princes,  bids  you  all  adieu ; 

{To  all. 
He  '11  shape  his  old  course  in  a  country  new. 

\_Exit  Kent  L.  Re-enter  Gloster,  with  France, 
Burgundy  and  a  knight  R.  u.  E.  Gloster  and 
France  on  the  R.  of  throne.  Burgundy  comes 
down  L. 

Glos.  [R.  to  Lear. 

Here 's  France  and  Burgundy,  my  noble  lord. 


KING    LEAR.  1"J 

Lear. 

My  lord  of  Burgundy, 

We  first  address  toward  you,  who  with  this  king 
Hath  rivalled  for  our  daughter :  what  in  the  least, 
Will  you  require  in  present  dower  with  her, 
Or  cease  your  quest  of  love  ? 

Bur.  [L. 

Most  royal  majesty, 

I  crave  no  more  than  hath  your  highness  offered, 
Nor  will  you  tender  less. 

Lear. 

Right  noble  Burgundy, 

When  she  was  dear  to  us,  we  did  hold  her  so ; 
But  now  her  price  is  fallen.     Sir,  there  she  stands ; 
Dowered  with  our  curse,  and  strangered  with  our  oath. 
Take  her,  or  leave  her. 

Bur. 

Pardon  me,  royal  sir ; 
Election  makes  not  up  on  such  conditions. 

Lear. 

Then  leave  her,  sir;  for  by  the  power  that  made  me, 
I  tell  you  all  her  wealth :  for  you,  great  king, 

[To  France. 

I  would  not  from  your  love  make  such  a  stray, 
To  match  you  where  I  hate ;  therefore  beseech  you 
To  avert  your  liking  a  more  worthier  way, 
Than  on  a  wretch  whom  nature  is  ashamed 
Almost  to  acknowledge  hers. 

France.  [R. 

This  is  most  strange : 
Sure  her  offence 

Must  be  of  such  unnatural  degree, 
That  monsters  it; 
Which  to  believe  of  her, 
Must  be  a  faith  that  reason,  without  miracle, 
Should  never  plant  in  me. 


1 8  KING    LEAR. 

Cord.  [  To  Lear. 

I  yet  beseech  your  majesty,  that  you  make  known 

It  is  no  vicious  blot,  murder,  or  foulness, 

No  unchaste  action,  or  dishonoured  step, 

That  hath  deprived  me  of  your  grace  and  favour ; 

But  even  for  want  of  that  for  which  I  am  richer, — 

A  still-soliciting  eye,  and  such  a  tongue 

That  I  am  glad  I  have  not,  though  not  to  have  it, 

Hath  lost  me  in  your  liking. 

Lear. 

Better  thou 
Hadst  not  been  born  than  not  to  have  pleased  me  better. 


France.  [R. 

Is  it  but  this  ? 

Fairest  Cordelia,  that  thou  art  most  rich,  being  poor, 

Most  choice,  forsaken,  and  most  loved,  despised, 

Thee  and  thy  virtues  here  I  seize  upon. 

Thy  dowerless  daughter,  king,  thrown  to  my  chance, 

[71?  Lear. 

Is  queen  of  us,  of  ours,  and  our  fair  France ; 
Not  all  the  dukes  of  wat'rish  Burgundy 
Can  buy  this  unprized  precious  maid  of  me. 

Lear. 

Thou  hast  her,  France ;  let  her  be  thine,  for  we 

Have  no  such  daughter,  nor  shall  ever  see 

That  face  of  hers  again ;  —  therefore,  begone 

Without  our  grace,  our  love,  our  benison. 

\March.  Exeunt  Lear,  Burgundy,  Cornwall, 
Albany,  and  attendants  L.  Scene  closes  as  they 
go  out.  France  and  Cordelia  remain,  looking 
after  Lear. 


KING   LEAR.  19 

>.  f  STONE    HALL    IN     GLOSTER'S   CASTLE. 
Scene  &econi.  {     [FIRST  GROOVES-] 

[Enter  Edmund  with  a  letter  R.  I.E. 

Edm. 

Thou,  Nature,  art  my  goddess ;  to  thy  law 

My  services  are  bound.     Wherefore  should  I 

Stand  in  the  plague  of  custom,  and  permit 

The  curiosity  of  nations  to  deprive  me, 

For  that  I  am  some  twelve  or  fourteen  moon-shines 

Lag  of  a  brother  ?     Why  bastard  ?  wherefore  base, 

When  my  dimensions  are  as  well  compact, 

My  mind  as  generous,  and  my  shape  as  true, 

As  honest  madam's  issue  ? 

Well  then, 

Legitimate  Edgar,  I  must  have  your  land ; 

Our  father's  love  is  to  the  bastard  Edmund, 

As  to  the  legitimate.     Fine  word,  legitimate. 

Well,  my  legitimate,  if  this  letter  speed, 

And  my  invention  thrive,  Edmund  the  base 

Shall  top  the  legitimate.     I  grow,  I  prosper :  — 

Now,  gods,  stand  up  for  bastards ! 

[Enter  Gloster  L.  I.E. 

Glos. 

Kent  banished  thus !  and  France  in  choler  parted  ! 
And  the  king  gone  to-night !     Subscribed  his  power ! 
Confined  to  exhibition  !     All  this  done 
Upon  the  gad ! — Edmund,  how  now!     What  news  ? 

Edm.  [Hiding  the  letter. 

So  please  your  lordship,  none. 

Glos. 
What  paper  were  you  reading  ? 

Edm. 
Nothing,  my  lord. 


30  KING    LEAR. 

Glos. 

No !  What  needed,  then,  that  terrible  dispatch  of  it 
into  your  pocket  ?  The  quality  of  nothing  hath  not  such 
need  to  hide  itself. 

Edm. 

I  beseech  you,  sir,  pardon  me ;  it  is  a  letter  from  my 
brother,  that  I  have  not  all  o'er-read ;  and  for  so  much 
as  I  have  perused,  I  find  it  not  fit  for  your  o'erlooking. 

Glos. 
Give  me  the  letter,  sir. 

Edm. 

I  shall  offend,  either  to  detain  or  give  it.  The  contents, 
as  in  part  I  understand  them,  are  to  blame. 

Glos. 

Let 's  see,  let 's  see !  \Glostertakes  letter. 

Edm. 

I  hope,  for  my  brother's  justification,  he  wrote  this  but 
as  an  assay  or  taste  of  my  virtue. 

Glos.  {Reads. 

"  This  policy  and  reverence  of  age  make  the  world  bit- 
ter to  the  best  of  our  times  ;  keep  our  fortunes  from  us,  till 
our  oldness  cannot  relish  them.  I  begin  to  find  an  idle 
and  fond  bondage  in  the  oppression  of  aged  tyranny,  who 
sways  not  as  it  hath  power,  but  as  it  is  suffered.  Come  to 
me  that  of  this  I  may  speak  more.  If  our  father  would 
sleep  till  I  waked  him,  you  should  enjoy  half  his  revenue 
for  ever,  and  live  the  beloved  of  your  brother,  Edgar." 

Humph!  Conspiracy!  "Sleep  till  I  waked  him, — 
you  should  enjoy  half  his  revenue." — My  son  Edgar !  Had 
he  a  hand  to  write  this  ?  A  heart  and  brain  to  breed  it 
in  ?  —  When  came  this  to  you  ?  Who  brought  it  ? 

Edm. 

It  was  not  brought  me,  my  lord ;  there  's  the  cunning 
of  it  —  I  found  it,  thrown  in  at  the  casement  of  my  closet 


KING    LEAR.  21 

Glos. 
You  know  the  character  to  be  your  brother's  ? 

Edm. 

It  is  his  hand,  my  lord ;  but  I  hope  his  heart  is  not  in 
the  contents. 

Glos. 

O,  villain !  villain !  abhorred  villain !  unnatural,  de- 
tested, brutish  villain!  worse  than  brutish!  —  Go,  sirrah, 
seek  him ;  I  '11  apprehend  him  —  abominable  villain ! 

Edm. 

I  dare  pawn  down  my  life  for  him,  that  he  hath  writ 
this  to  feel  my  affection  to  your  honour,  and  to  no  other 
pretence  of  danger. 

Glos. 
Think  you  so  ? 

Edm. 

If  your  honour  judge  it  meet,  I  will  place  you  where 
you  shall  hear  us  confer,  this  very  evening. 

Glos. 
He  cannot  be  such  a  monster. 

Edm. 
Nor  is  not,  sure. 

Glos. 

To  his  father,  that  so  tenderly  and  entirely  loves  him. 
These  late  eclipses  in  the  sun  and  moon  portend  no  good 
to  us.  Love  cools,  friendship  falls  off,  brothers  divide :  in 
cities,  mutinies;  in  countries,  discord;  and  the  bond 
cracked  between  son  \crosses  R.]  and  father.  Find  out 
this  villain,  Edmund ;  it  shall  lose  thee  nothing. 

[Exit  Gloster  R.  i.  E. 


22  KING    LEAR. 

Edm. 

This  is  the  excellent  foppery  of  the  world,  that,  when 
we  are  sick  in  fortune, —  often  the  surfeit  of  our  own 
behaviour, —  we  make  guilty  of  our  disasters  the  sun,  the 
moon,  and  the  stars;  as  if  we  were  villains  by  necessity; 
fools,  by  heavenly  compulsion;  knaves,  thieves,  and 
treachers,  by  spherical  predominance.  An  admirable 
evasion  of  virtuous  man,  to  lay  his  devilish  disposition  to 
the  charge  of  a  star.  Tut !  I  should  have  been  that  I 
am,  had  the  maidenliest  star  in  the  firmament  twinkled  on 

my  birth.     Edgar 

[Enter  Edgar  L.  I.E. 
Edm. 

When  saw  you  my  father  last  ? 

Edgar. 
The  night  gone  by. 

Edm. 
Spake  you  with  him  ? 

Edgar. 
Ay,  two  hours  together. 

Edm. 

Parted  you  in  good  terms  ?  Found  you  no  displeasure 
in  him,  by  word  or  countenance  ? 

Edgar. 
None  at  all. 

Edm. 

Bethink  yourself,  wherein  you  may  have  offended  him  : 
and  at  my  entreaty  forbear  his  presence,  till  some  little 
time  hath  qualified  the  heat  of  his  displeasure,  which  at 
this  instant  so  rageth  in  him,  that  with  the  mischief  of 
your  person  it  would  scarcely  allay. 

Edgar. 
Some  villain  hath  done  me  wrong. 


KING    LEAR.  23 

Edm. 

That 's  my  fear.  I  pray  you,  have  a  continent  forbear- 
ance, till  the  speed  of  his  rage  goes  slower;  pray  you  go; 
if  you  do  stir  abroad,  go  armed. 

Edgar. 
Armed,  brother  ? 

Edm. 

Brother,  I  advise  you  to  the  best ;  I  am  no  honest  man, 
if  there  be  any  good  meaning  towards  you;  pray  you, 
away. 

Edgar. 

Shall  I  hear  from  you  anon  ? 

Edm. 

I  do  serve  you  in  this  business. 

[Exit  Edgar  L.  i.  E. 

A  credulous  father,  and  a  brother  noble, 
Whose  nature  is  so  far  from  doing  harms 
That  he  suspects  none ;  on  whose  foolish  honesty 
My  practices  ride  easy!     I  see  the  business, — 
Let  me,  if  not  by  birth,  have  lands  by  wit ; 
All  with  me 's  meet  that  I  can  fashion  fit. 

\Exit  R.  i.  E. 


(  BEFORE  THE  DUKE  OF  ALBANY'S  CA- 
x      ARCH    c.      ENTRANCE   TO    CASTLE   R. 
(      STONE  WALL  L.     RUDE  STONE  SEAT  c. 

[Enter  Gontril,  two  ladies,  Oswald,  and  two  lords  c. 


Did  my  father  strike  my  gentleman  for  chiding  of  his 
fool? 


24  KING    LEAR. 

Osw. 
Ay,  madam. 

Gon. 

By  day  and  night  he  wrongs  me ;  every  hour 

He  flashes  into  one  gross  crime  or  other, 

That  sets  us  all  at  odds  :  I  '11  not  endure  it. 

His  knights  grow  riotous,  and  himself  upbraids  us 

On  every  trifle.     When  he  returns  from  hunting, 

I  will  not  speak  with  him  :  say,  I  am  sick ; 

If  you  come  slack  of  former  services, 

You  shall  do  well ;  the  fault  of  it  I  '11  answer. 

[Horns  heard  within,  pp. 

Osw. 

He  's  coming,  madam,  I  hear  him. 

Gon. 

Put  on  what  weary  negligence  you  please, 

You  and  your  fellows;  I  'd  have  it  come  to  question: 

If  he  distaste  it,  let  him  to  my  sister, 

Whose  mind  and  mine,  I  know,  in  that  are  one, 

Not  to  be  over-ruled. 

Remember  what  I  have  said. 

Osw. 
Well,  madam. 

Gon. 

And  let  his  knights  have  colder  looks  among  you. 
What  grows  of  it,  no  matter ;  advise  your  fellows  so : 
I  would  breed  from  hence  occasions,  and  I  shall, 
That  I  may  speak ;  I  '11  write  straight  to  my  sister, 
To  hold  my  course. 

\_Exeunt  Goneril,   Oswald,  lords,  and  ladies  into 
Castle  R.    Enter  Kent,  disguised,  c. 

Kent. 

If  but  as  well  I  other  accents  borrow, 
That  can  my  speech  diffuse,  my  good  intent 
May  carry  through  itself  to  that  full  issue 


KING   LEAR.  25 

For  which  I  razed  my  likeness.    Now  banished  Kent, 
If  thou  canst  serve,where  thou  dost  stand  condemned, 
So  may  it  come  thy  master,  whom  thou  lov'st, 
Shall  find  thee  full  of  labours. 

[Horns  within.     Enter  Lear,  Curan,  knights  and 
attendants  through  arch  c. 

Lear. 
Let  me  not  stay  a  jot  for  dinner  :  go,  get  it  ready. 

[Exit  an  attendant  R.  3.  E. 
How  now !  what  art  thou  ?  [  To  Kent. 

Kent.  [R. 

A  man,  sir. 

Lear. 

What  dost  thou  profess  ?      What  wouldst  thou  with  us  ? 

Kent. 

I  do  profess  to  be  no  less  than  I  seem;  to  serve  him 
truly  that  will  put  me  in  trust ;  to  love  him  that  is  honest ; 
to  converse  with  him  that  is  wise,  and  says  little;  to  fear 
judgment;  to  fight  when  I  cannot  choose;  and  to  eat  no 
fish. 

Lear. 
What  art  thou  ? 

Kent. 

A  very  honest-hearted  fellow,  and  as  poor  as  the  king. 

Lear. 

If  thou  be  as  poor  for  a  subject,  as  he  is  for  a  king, 
thou  art  poor  enough.  What  wouldst  thou  ? 

Kent. 
Service. 

Lear. 

Whom  wouldst  thou  serve  ? 

Kent. 
You. 


26  KING   LEAR. 

Lear. 
Dost  thou  know  me,  fellow  ? 

Kent. 

No,  sir ;  but  you  have  that  in  your  countenance  which 
I  would  fain  call  master. 

Lear. 
What's  that? 

Kent. 
Authority. 

Lear. 

What  services  canst  thou  do  ? 

Kent. 

I  can  keep  honest  counsel,  ride,  run,  mar  a  curious  tale 
in  telling  it,  and  deliver  a  plain  message  bluntly  :  that 
which  ordinary  men  are  fit  for,  I  am  qualified  in ;  and  the 
best  of  me  is  diligence. 

Lear. 

How  old  art  thou  ? 

Kent. 

Not  so  young,  sir,  to  love  a  woman  for  singing ;  nor  so 
old  to  dote  on  her  for  anything.  I  have  years  on  my  back 
forty-eight. 

Lear. 

Follow  me ;  thou  shalt  serve  me :  if  I  like  thee  no  worse 
after  dinner,  I  will  not  part  from  thee  yet. —  Dinner,  ho ! 
dinner !  Where 's  my  knave  ?  my  fool  ?  Go  you,  and 
call  my  fool  hither. 

[Exit  knight  c.     Enter  Oswald  R.  singing. 

You,  you,  sirrah,  where 's  my  daughter  ? 

Osw. 

So  please  you, 

[Exit  L.  i.  E. 


KING   LEAR.  27 

Lear. 

What  said  the  fellow  ?    Call  the  clodpole  back.  Where 's 

[Exit  Curan  L.  i.  E. 

my  fool,  ho?     I  think  the  world's  asleep.     How,  now! 
where 's  that  mongrel  ?  [Enter  Curan. 

Curan. 
He  says,  my  lord,  your  daughter  is  not  well. 

Lear. 

Why  came  not  the  slave  back  to  me,  when  I  called 
him? 

Curan. 

Sir,  he  answered  me  in  the  roundest  manner,  he  would 
not.  [Exit  Kent  L.  i.  E. 

Lear. 
He  would  not ! 

Curan. 

My  lord,  I  know  not  what  the  matter  is,  but,  to  my 
judgment,  your  highness  is  not  entertained  with  that 
ceremonious  affection  as  you  were  wont. 

Lear. 

Ha !  sayest  thou  so  ?  Thou  but  rememberest  me  of 
mine  own  conception.  I  have  perceived  a  most  faint 
neglect  of  late ;  which  I  have  rather  blamed  as  mine  own 
jealous  curiosity,  than  as  a  very  pretence  and  purpose  of 
unkindness.  I  will  look  further  into  't.  —  But  where 's 
my  fool  ?  I  have  not  seen  him  this  two  days. 

Curan. 

Since  my  young  lady's  going  into  France,  sir,  the  fool 
hath  much  pined  away. 


2°  KING    LEAR. 

Lear. 

No  more  of  that ;  I  have  noted  it  well.      Go  you  and 
tell  my  daughter  I  would  speak  with  her.      Go  you,  call 

[Exit  Curan  R.  3.  E. 
hither  my  fool ! 

[Exit  a   knight,  arch   c.    Re-enter   Oswald  and 
Kent  L.  i .  E.    Kent  places  Oswald  L.  of  Lear. 

0  !  you,  sir,  come  you  hither.     Who  am  I,  sir  ? 

Osw. 
My  lady's  father. 

Lear. 

My   lady's   father !    my  lord's  knave !   you  dog !   you 
slave  !  you  cur ! 

Osw. 

1  am  none  of  these,  my  lord ;  I  beseech  your  pardon. 

Lear. 

Do  you  bandy  looks  with  me,  you  rascal  ? 

[Lear  strikes  Oswald. 
Osw. 

I  '11  not  be  struck,  my  lord. 

Kent. 

Nor  tripped  neither,  you  base  foot-ball  player. 

[Tripping  Oswald,  who  falls. 

Lear.  [To  Kent. 

I  thank  thee,  fellow;  thou   servest  me,  and   I'll  love 
thee. 

Kent.  [To  Oswald. 

Come,  sir,  arise,   away !     I  '11   teach   you   differences : 
away,  away!  if  you  will   measure   your  lubber's  length 
again,  tarry ;  but  away !  go  to :  have  you  wisdom  ?     So ! 
[Oswald,    having  risen,  is  pushed  off,  by  Kent, 
R.  3.  E. 


KING   LEAR.  29 

Lear. 

Now,  my  friendly  knave,  I  thank  thee;  there  's  earnest 
of  thy  service. 

[Kent  down  R. :  Lear  gives  him  money  :  enter  Fool, 
arch  c. 

fool.  [Crosses  to  Kent. 

Let  me  hire  him  too: — Here 's  my  coxcomb. 

[  Offering  Kent  his  cap. 
Lear. 
How  now,  my  pretty  knave !  how  dost  thou  ? 

Fool.  {To  Kent. 

Sirrah,  you  were  best  take  my  coxcomb. 

Kent. 
Why,  boy  ? 

Fool. 

Why  ?  for  taking  one's  part  that 's  out  of  favour.  Nay, 
an'  thou  canst  not  smile  as  the  wind  sits,  thou  'It  catch  cold 
shortly :  there,  take  my  coxcomb.  Why,  this  fellow  has 
banished  two  on 's  daughters,  and  did  the  third  a  blessing 
against  his  will;  if  thou  follow  him  thou  must  needs  wear 
my  coxcomb. — How  now,  nuncle  ?  would  I  had  two  cox- 
combs, and  two  daughters. 

Lear. 
Why,  my  boy  ? 

Fool. 

If  I  gave  them  all  my  living,  I  'd  keep  my  coxcombs 
myself.  There's  mine;  beg  another  of  thy  daughters. 

Lear. 
Take  heed,  sirrah;  the  whip. 

Fool. 

Truth's  a  dog  must  to  kennel;  he  must  be  whipped  out, 
when  the  Lady  Brach  may  lie  by  the  fire  and  sleep. 
Sirrah,  I  '11  teach  thee  a  speech. 


30  KING    LEAR. 

Lear. 
Do. 

Fool. 
Mark  it,  nuncle  : — 

Have  more  than  thou  showest, 
Speak  less  than  thou  knowest, 
Lend  less  than  thou  owest, 
Ride  more  than  thou  goest. 
Learn  more  than  thou  trowest, 
Set  less  than  thou  throwest ; 
And  thou  shalt  have  more 
Than  two  tens  to  a  score. 

Lear. 

This  is  nothing,  fool. 

Fool. 

Then,  'tis  like  the  breath  of  an  unfeed  lawyer;  you 
gave  me  nothing  for  it.  Can  you  make  no  use  of  noth- 
ing, nuncle? 

Lear. 
Why,  no,  boy;  nothing  can  be  made  out  of  nothing. 

Fool.  {To  Kent. 

Pr'ythee,  tell  him,  so  much  the  rent  of  his  land  comes 
to :  he  will  not  believe  a  fool. 

Lear. 
A  bitter  fool ! 

Fool. 

Dost  thou  know  the  difference,  my  boy,  between  a  bitter 
fool  and  a  sweet  one  ? 

Lear. 
No,  lad,  teach  me. 


KING   LEAR.  31 

Fool.  [Sings. 

That  lord,  that  counselled  thee 

To  give  away  thy  land, 
Come  place  him  here  by  me ; 

Do  thou  for  him  stand : 
The  sweet  and  bitter  fool 

Will  presently  appear; 
The  one  in  motley  here, 

The  other  found  out  there. 

[Points  at  Lear. 
Lear. 

Dost  thou  call  me  fool,  boy  ? 

Fool. 

All  thy  other  titles  thou  hast  given  away;  that  thou 
wast  born  with. 

Kent. 

This  is  not  altogether  fool,  my  lord. 

Fool. 

No,  'faith ;  lords  and  great  men  will  not  let  me  have  all 
fool  to  myself;  they'll  be  snatching.  Give  me  an  egg, 
nuncle,  and  I  '11  give  thee  two  crowns. 

\Kent  retires  up. 
Lear. 

What  two  crowns  shall  they  be  ? 

Fool. 

Why,  after  I  have  cut  the  egg  i'  the  middle,  and  eat  up 
the  meat,  the  two  crowns  of  the  egg.  When  thou  clovest 
thy  crown  i'  the  middle,  and  gavest  away  both  parts,  thou 
borest  thine  ass  on  thy  back  o'er  the  dirt:  thou  hadst 
little  wit  in  thy  bald  crown,  when  thou  gav'st  thy  golden 
one  away.  If  I  speak  like  myself  in  this,  let  him  be 
whipped  that  first  finds  it  so. 


32  KING   LEAR. 

[Sings. 
Then  they  for  sudden  joy  did  weep. 

And  I  for  sorrow  sung 
That  such  a  king  should  play  bo-peep, 
And  go  the  fools  among. 

[Pool  goes  down  to  R.  corner. 

Lear. 
When  were  you  wont  to  be  so  full  of  songs,  sirrah  ? 

Fool. 

I  have  used  it,  nuncle,  ever  since  thou  madest  thy 
daughters  thy  mothers.  Pr'ythee,  nuncle,  keep  a  school- 
master that  can  teach  thy  fool  to  lie.  I  would  fain  learn 
to  lie. 

Lear. 

An  you  lie,  sirrah,   we  '11  have  you  whipped. 

Fool. 

I  marvel  what  kin  thou  and  thy  daughters  are :  they  '11 
have  me  whipped  for  speaking  true,  thou  'It  have  me 
whipped  for  lying;  and  sometimes  I  am  whipped  for  hold- 
ing my  peace.  I  had  rather  be  any  kind  o'  a  thing  than  a 
fool ;  and  yet  would  not  be  thee,  nuncle ;  thou  hast  pared 
thy  wit  o'  both  sides,  and  left  nothing  i'  the  middle. 

[Enter  Goneril,  three  ladies  and  three  gentlemen 

from  castle  R.  3.  E. 
Here  comes  one  of  the  parings. 

Lear. 

How  now,  daughter !     What  makes  that  frontlet  on  ? 
Methinks  you  are  too  much  of  late  i'  the  frown. 

Gon.  [R. 

Not  only,  sir,  this  your  all-licensed  fool, 

But  other  of  your  insolent  retinue 

Do  hourly  carp  and  quarrel ;  breaking  forth 

In  rank,  and  not-to-be-endured  riots.     Sir, 

I  had  thought,  by  making  this  well  known  unto  you, 


KING    LEAR.  33 

To  have  found  a  safe  redress;  but  now  grow  fearful, 
By  what  yourself  too  late  have  spoke  and  done, 
That  you  protect  this  course,  and  put  it  on, 
By  your  allowance. 

Fool.  [L. 

For  you  know,  nuncle,  [Sings. 

The  hedge-sparrow  fed  the  cuckoo  so  long, 
That  it  had  its  head  bit  off  by  its  young. 

Lear. 
Are  you  our  daughter  ? 

Gon. 

I  would  you  would  make  use  of  your  good  wisdom,  and 
put  aside  these  dispositions  which  transport  you  from  what 
you  rightly  are. 

Lear. 

Does  any  here  know  me  ?     Why,  this  is  not  Lear : 
Does  Lear  walk  thus  ?  speak  thus  ?  Where  are  his  eyes  ? 
Who  is  it  that  can  tell  me  who  I  am  ? 

Fool. 
Lear 's  shadow ! 

Lear.  [To  Goneril. 

Your  name,  fair  gentlewoman  ? 

Gon. 

This  admiration,  sir,  is  much  o'  the  savour 

Of  other  your  new  pranks.     I  do  beseech  you 

To  understand  my  purposes  aright ; 

As  you  are  old  and  reverend,  should  be  wise. 

Here  do  you  keep  a  hundred  knights  and  squires ; 

Men  so  disordered,  so  debauched  and  bold, 

That  this  our  court,  infected  with  their  manners, 

Shows  like  a  riotous  inn : 

For  instant  remedy,  be,  then,  desired 

By  her,  that  else  will  take  the  thing  she  begs, 

3  •      .  •     . 


34  KING    LEAR. 

A  little  to  disquantity  your  train ; 
And  the  remainder,  that  shall  still  depend, 
To  be  such  men  as  may  besort  your  age, 
Which  know  themselves  and  you. 

Lear. 

Darkness  and  devils ! 
Saddle  my  horses;  call  my  train  together. — 

[Exit  attendant. 

Degenerate  bastard !    I  '11  not  trouble  thee; 
Yet  have  I  left  a  daughter. 

Gon. 

You  strike  my  people,  and  your  disordered  rabble 
Make  servants  of  their  betters. 

Lear. 

Woe,  that  too  late  repents. — 

[Enter  Albany  L.  i.  E.] 

O,  sir,  are  you  come ?  [To  Albany. 

Is  it  your  will  ?     Speak,  sir !     Prepare  my  horses. 
Ingratitude,  thou  marble-hearted  fiend, 
More  hideous,  when  thou  show  'st  thee  in  a  child, 
Than  the  sea-monster. 

Alb. 
Pray,  sir,  be  patient. 

Lear.  [L.  to  Goneril. 

Detested  kite !  thou  liest ! 
My  train  are  men  of  choice  and  rarest  parts, 
That  all  particulars  of  duty  know, 
And  in  the  most  exact  regard  support 
The  worships  of  their  name. —  O,  most  small  fault, 
How  ugly  didst  thou  in  Cordelia  show, 
Which,  like  an  engine,  wrenched  my  frame  of  nature 
From  the  fixed  place,  drew  from  my  heart  all  love, 
And  added  to  the  gall.     O,  Lear,  Lear,  Lear ! 

[Striking  his  head. 

Beat  at  this  gate,  that  let  thy  folly  in, 
And  thy  dear  judgment  out ! 
Go,  go,  my  people ! 


KING    LEAR.  35 

Alb. 

Now,  gods,  that  we  adore,  whereof  comes  this  ? 

\Albany  crosses  to  Goneril  R. 

Gon. 

Never  afflict  yourself  to  know  the  cause ; 
But  let  his  disposition  have  that  scope 
That  dotage  gives  it. 

Alb.  [R. 

What 's  the  matter,  sir  ? 

Lear. 

I  '11  tell  thee !  —  Life  and  death  !     I  am  ashamed 
That  thou  hast  power  to  shake  my  manhood  thus  : 

\To  Goneril. 

That  these  hot  tears,  which  break  from  me  perforce, 
Should  make  thee  worth  them. —  Blasts  and  fogs  upon  thee ! 
The  untented  woundings  of  a  father's  curse 
Pierce  every  sense  about  thee !  —  Old,  fond  eyes, 
Beweep  this  cause  again,  I  '11  pluck  you  out ; 
And  cast  you,  with  the  waters  that  you  lose, 
To  temper  clay.     Ha !  is  it  come  to  this  ? 
Let  it  be  so ;  yet  have  I  left  a  daughter, 
Who,  I  am  sure,  is  kind  and  comfortable ; 
When  she  shall  hear  this  of  thee,  with  her  nails 
She  '11  flay  thy  wolfish  visage.     Thou  shall  find 
That  I  '11  resume  the  shape  which  thou  dost  think 
I  have  cast  off  forever. 

Alb. 

My  lord,  I  am  guiltless,  as  I  am  ignorant 
Of  what  hath  moved  you. 

Lear. 

It  may  be  so,  my  lord :  — 

Hear,  Nature,  hear;  dear  goddess,  hear!  {Kneels. 

Suspend  thy  purpose,  if  thou  didst  intend 
To  make  this  creature  fruitful ! 
Into  her  womb  convey  sterility  ! 


3°  KING   LEAR. 

Dry  up  in  her  the  organs  of  increase ; 
And  from  her  derogate  body  never  spring 
A  babe  to  honour  her !     If  she  must  teem, 
Create  her  child  of  spleen ;  that  it  may  live, 
And  be  a  thwart  disnatured  torment  to  her ! 
Let  it  stamp  wrinkles  in  her  brow  of  youth ; 
With  cadent  tears  fret  channels  in  her  cheeks ; 
Turn  all  her  mother's  pains  and  benefits, 
To  laughter  and  contempt ;  that  she  may  feel 
How  sharper  than  a  serpent's  tooth  it  is 
To  have  a  thankless  child ! 

[Kent  and  Pool  assist  Lear  to  rise, 

QUICK  CURTAIN. 


IN  FRONT  OF  GLOSTER'S  CASTLE.     CUT 
g,          ffir<?t  J      WooD  FRONT.      CASTLE    c.     A  WING 
*  ^      OF  THE  CASTLE,  WITH  PRIVATE  DOOR, 

SEEN    L.    U.    E. 

[Enter  Kent  R.  i.  E.,  and  Oswald  L.  2.  E. 

Osw. 
Good-morrow  to  thee,  friend :  art  of  this  house  ? 

Kent. 
Ay. 

Osw. 

Where  may  we  set  our  horses  ? 

Kent. 
I'  the  mire. 

Osw. 

Pr'ythee,  if  thou  lovest  me,  tell  me. 

Kent. 
I  love  thee  not 

Osu1. 

Why,  then,  I  care  not  for  thee. 

Kent. 

If  I  had  thee  in  Lipsbury  pinfold,  I  would  make  thee 
care  for  me. 

Osw. 

Why  dost  thou  use  me  thus  ?     I  know  thee  not. 


38  KING    LEAR. 

Kent. 
Fellow,  I  know  thee. 

Osw. 
What  dost  thou  know  me  for  ? 

Kent. 

A  knave ;  a  rascal ;  an  eater  of  broken  meats  ;  a  base, 
proud,  shallow,  beggarly,  three-suited,  hundred-pound, 
filthy, worsted-stocking  knave;  a  lily-livered,  action-taking 
knave ;  a  glass-gazing,  superserviceable,  finical  rogue. 

Osw.  [L. 

Why,  what  a  monstrous  fellow  art  thou,  thus  to  rail  on 
one  that  is  neither  known  of  thee,  nor  knows  thee. 

Kent. 

What  a  brazen-faced  varlet  art  thou,  to  deny  that  thou 
know'st  me  ?  Is  it  two  days  since  I  tripped  up  thy  heels, 
and  beat  thee,  before  the  king  ?  Draw,  you  rogue  ! 

{Kent  draws  sword  and  menaces  Oswald. 

Osw. 
Away,  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  thee. 

Kent. 

Draw,  you  rascal :  you  come  with  letters  against  the 
king,  and  take  vanity  the  puppet's  part,  against  the  royalty 
of  her  father ;  draw,  you  rogue,  or  I  '11  so  carbonade  your 
shanks ; — draw,  you  rascal !  Come  your  ways ! 

Osw. 

Help,  ho!     Murder!     Help! 
Kent. 

Strike,  you  slave ;  stand,  rogue,  stand ;  you  neat  slave, 
strike.  [Beating  him. 

Osw. 
Help,  ho  !  Murder !  Murder ! 

[Exeunt  L.     Enter  Edmund  c. 


KING    LEAR.  39 

Edm. 

The  duke  be  here  to-day  ?     The  better ! 

Best! 

This  weaves  itself  perforce  into  my  business. 

My  father  hath  set  guard  to  take  my  brother ; 

And  I  have  one  thing,  of  a  queazy  question, 

Which  I  must  act.  —  Briefness  and  fortune  work ! 

Brother  a  word; — brother,  I  say! 

[Enter  Edgar  L.  u.  E. 

My  father  watches :  —  O,  sir,  fly  this  place  ; 
Intelligence  is  given  where  you  are  hid  : 
Have  you  not  spoken  'gainst  the  Duke  of  Cornwall  ? 
He  's  coming  hither,  and  Regan  with  him  : 
Have  you  nothing  said 
Upon  his  party  'gainst  the  Duke  of  Albany  ? 
Advise  yourself. 

Edgar. 
I  am  sure  on  't,  not  a  word. 

Edm. 

{During  this  speech,  mock  combat. 
I  hear  my  father  coming, — pardon  me  : 
In  cunning  I  must  draw  my  sword  upon  you ; 
Draw;  seem  to  defend  yourself:  now,  'quit  you  well. 
Yield  :  —  come  before  my  father : 
Fly  brother  !     Help  !     Help  !     So,  farewell. 

f  Exit  Edgar  L.  i .  E. 
Some  blood  drawn  on  me  would  beget  opinion 

[  Wounds  his  arm. 

Of  my  more  fierce  endeavour :  I  have  seen  drunkards, 
Do  more  than  this  in  sport. —  Father  !     Father  ! 
Stop,  stop  !     No  help  ? 

[Enter  Glostcr  and  two  servants  with  torches,  from 
castle  c. 

Glos. 
Now,  Edmund,  where  's  the  villain  ? 


40  KING    LEAR. 

Edm. 

Here  stood  he  in  the  dark,  his  sharp  sword  out 
Mumbling  of  wicked  charms. 

Glos. 

But,  where  is  he  ? 

Edm. 
Look,  sir,  I  bleed. 

Glos. 

Where  is  the  villain,  Edmund  ? 

Edm. 

Fled  this  way,  sir.     [Points  R.  i.  E.]     When  by  no  means 

he  could 

Glos. 

Pursue  him.     Ho !  —  Go  after ! 

[Exeunt  servants   R.    i.    E.,  as  Edmund  directs^ 

which  is  contrary  to  the  way  of  Edgar 's  flight. 
By  no  means,  —  what  ? 

Edm. 

Persuade  me  to  the  murder  of  your  lordship. 
Seeing  how  loathly  opposite  I  stood 
To  his  unnatural  purpose,  in  fell  motion, 
With  his  prepared  sword  he  charges  home 
My  unprovided  body,  lanced  mine  arm ; 
But  when  he  saw  my  best  alarmed  spirits, 
Bold  in  the  quarrel's  right, 
Or  whether  ghasted  by  the  noise  I  made, 
Full  suddenly  he  fled. 

Glos. 

Let  him  fly  far ; 

Not  in  this  land  shall  he  remain  uncaught, 
And  found — dispatch.     The  noble  duke,  my  master, 
My  worthy  arch  and  patron,  comes. 
By  his  authority  I  will  proclaim  it. 


KING    LEAR.  4! 

That  he,  which  finds  him,  shall  deserve  our  thanks, 
Bringing  the  murderous  coward  to  the  stake ; 
He,  that  conceals  him,  death.  [  Trumpets  at  distance. 

Hark !     The  duke's  trumpets.     I  know  not  why  he  comes. 
All  ports  I  '11  bar ;  the  villain  shall  not  'scape ; 
The  duke  must  grant  me  that.     And  of  my  land, 
Loyal  and  natural  boy,  I  '11  work  the  means 
To  make  thee  capable. 

[Enter  Cornwall,  Regan,  ladies,  and  attendants, 

L.   2.  E. 

Corn. 

How  now,  my  noble  friend!     Since  I  came  hither, — 
Which  I  can  call  but  now,  —  I  have  heard  strange  news. 

Regan.  [L. 

If  it  be  true,  all  vengeance  comes  too  short, 
Which  can  pursue  the  offender, 
What !  did  my  father's  godson  seek  your  life  ? 
He  whom  my  father  named  ?     Your  Edgar  ? 

Glos.  [R.  c. 

O,  lady,  lady !  shame  would  have  it  hid ! 

Regan. 

Was  he  not  companion  with  the  riotous  knights 
That  tend  upon  my  father  ? 

Edm. 
Yes,  madam,  he  was  of  that  consort.  • 

Regan.  [To  Cornwall. 

No  marvel,  then,  though  he  were  ill-affected; 
T  is  they  have  put  him  on  the  old  man's  death, 
To  have  the  expense  and  waste  of  his  revenues. 

[To  Gloster. 

I  have  this  present  morning  from  my  sister 
Been  well  informed  of  them ;  and  with  such  cautions, 
That  if  they  come  to  sojourn  at  my  house,  I  "11  not  be  there. 


42  KING  LEAR. 

* 
Corn. 

Nor  I,  assure  thee,  Regan.  — 

Edmund,  I  hear  that  you  have  shown  your  father 

A  child-like  office. 

Edm. 
It  was  my  duty,  sir. 

Glos. 

He  did  bewray  his  practice ;  and  received 
This  hurt  you  see,  striving  to  apprehend  him. 

Corn. 
Is  he  pursued  ? 

Glos. 
Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Corn. 

If  he  be  taken,  he  shall  nevermore 

Be  feared  of  doing  harm ;  make  your  own  purpose, 

How  in  my  strength  you  please.     For  you,  Edmund, 

Whose  virtue  and  obedience  doth  this  instant 

So  much  commend  itself,  you  shall  be  ours  : 

Natures  of  such  deep  trust  we  shall  much  need  : 

You  we  first  seize  on. 

Edm. 

I  shall  serve  you,  sir, 
Truly,  however  else. 

Glos.  [To  Cornwall. 

For  him,  I  thank  your  grace. 

Corn. 
You  know  not  why  we  came  to  visit  you. 

Regan. 

Thus  out  of  season,  threading  dark-eyed  night. 
Occasions,  noble  Gloster,  of  some  poise, 
W  herein  we  must  have  use  of  your  advice. 
Our  father  he  hath  writ,  so  hath  our  sister, 
Of  differences,  which  I  best  thought  it  fit 


KING    LEAR.  43 

To  answer  from  our  home ;  the  several  messengers 
From  hence  attend  despatch.     Our  good  old  friend, 
Lay  comforts  to  your  bosom,  and  bestow, 
Your  needful  counsel  to  our  business, 
Which  craves  the  instant  use. 

Glos. 

I  serve  you,  madam. 
Your  graces  are  right  welcome. 

{Enter  L.  Oswald  crying  "Help!"  "  help!"  fol- 
lowed by  Kent  L.  u.  E.  Oswald  crosses  to  R. 
corner.  Kent  remains  L. 

Edm. 
How  now  ?     What 's  the  matter  ? 

Corn. 

Keep  peace,  upon  your  lives ; 

He  dies  that  strikes  again.     What  is  the  matter  ? 

Regan. 
The  messengers  from  our  sister  and  the  king. 

Corn. 
What  is  your  difference  ?     Speak ! 

Osw.  [R. 

I  'm  scarce  in  breath,  my  lord. 

Kent.  [L. 

No  marvel,  you  have  so  bestirred  your  valour.  You 
cowardly  rascal,  nature  disclaims  in  thee ;  a  tailor  made 
thee ! 

Corn. 

Thou  art  a  strange  fellow;  a  tailor  make  a  man? 
Kent. 

Ay,  a  tailor,  sir;  a  stone-cutter,  or  a  painter,  could  not 
have  made  him  so  ill,  though  they  had  been  but  two  hours 
at  the  trade. 


44  KING   LEAR. 

Corn. 
Speak  yet,  how  grew  your  quarrel  ? 

Osw. 
This  ancient  ruffian,  sir,  whose  life  I  have  spared, 


At  suit  of  his  grey  beard ,- 


Kent. 

Thou  zed!  Thou  unnecessary  letter!  —  My  lord,  if  you 
will  give  me  leave,  I  will  tread  this  unbolted  villain  into 
mortar.  Spare  my  grey  beard,  you  wagtail! 

Corn. 
Peace,  sirrah !     Have  you  no  reverence  ? 

Kent. 
Yes,  sir,  but  anger  hath  a  privilege. 

Corn. 
Why  art  thou  angry  ? 

Kent. 

That  such  a  slave  as  this  should  wear  a  sword, 

Who  wears  no  honesty. 

No  contraries  hold  more  antipathy 

Than  I  and  such  a  knave. 

Corn. 
Why  dost  thou  call  him  knave  ?     What 's  his  offence  ? 

Kent. 
His  countenance  likes  me  not. 

Corn. 
No  more  perchance  does  mine,  nor  his,  nor  hers. 

Kent. 

Sir,  't  is  my  occupation  to  be  plain; 
I  have  seen  better  faces  in  my  time 
Than  stand  on  any  shoulders  that  I  see 
Before  me  at  this  instant. 


KING    LEAR.  45 

Con i. 

This  is  some  fellow, 

Who,  having  been  praised  for  bluntness,  doth  affect 

A  saucy  roughness; 

These  kind  of  knaves  I  know,  which  in  this  plainness 

Harbour  more  craft,  and  more  corrupter  ends, 

Than  twenty  silly,  ducking  observants, 

That  stretch  their  duties  nicely. 

What  was  the  offence  you  gave  him  ?  [  To  Oswald. 

Osw. 

I  never  gave  him  any; 
It  pleased  the  king,  his  master,  very  late, 
To  strike  at  me,  upon  his  misconstruction ; 
When  he,  compact,  and  flattering  his  displeasure, 
Tripped  me  behind ;  being  down,  insulted,  railed, 
And  put  upon  him  such  a  deal  of  man, 
That  worthied  him,  got  praises  of  the  king, 
And  in  the  fleshment  of  this  dread  exploit 
Drew  on  me  here.again. 

Corn. 

Fetch  forth  the  stocks ! 

[  Two  knights  enter  castle  c. 

You  stubborn,  ancient  knave,  you  reverend  braggart, 
We  '11  teach  you ! 

Kent. 

Sir,  I  am  too  old  to  learn : 

Call  not  your  stocks  for  me :  I  serve  the  king, 

On  whose  employment  I  was  sent  to  you: 

You  shall  do  small  respects,  show  too  bold  malice 

Against  the  grace  and  person  of  my  master, 

Stocking  his  messenger. 

Regan. 

Fetch  forth  the  stocks- 

As  I  have  life  and  honour,  there  shall  he  sit  till  night — 

And  all  night  too. 


4*>  KING    LEAR. 

Kent. 

Why,  madam,  if  I  were  your  father's  dog, 
You  should  not  use  me  so. 

Regan. 

Sir,  being  his  knave,  I  will. 

[Re-enter  two  knights,  with  two  servants  who  carry 
the  stocks. 

Glos. 

Let  me  oeseech  your  grace  not  to  do  so  : 
His  fault  is  much,  and  the  good  king  his  master 
Will  check  him  for  't ;  the  king  must  take  it  ill, 
That  he,  so  slightly  valued  in  his  messenger, 
Should  have  him  thus  restrained. 

Corn. 
I  '11  answer  that. 

Regan. 

My  sister  may  receive  it  much  more  worse, 
To  have  her  gentleman  abused,  assaulted, 
For  following  her  affairs. 

[Kent  is  pttt  into  the  stocks.  Exeunt  Regan, 
Cornwall,  Edmund,  and  attendants,  c. 

Glos.  [To  Kent. 

I  am  sorry  for  thee,  friend :  '  t  is  the  duke's  pleasure, 

Whose  disposition,  all  the  world  well  knows, 

Will  not  be  rubbed,  nor  stopped :  I  '11  entreat  for  thee. 

Kent. 

Pray,  do  not,  sir.     I  have  watched  and  travelled  hard : 
Sometime  I  shall  sleep  out,  the  rest  I  '11  whistle. 
A  good  man's  fortune  may  grow  out  at  heels : 
Give  you  good-morrow  ! 

Glos.  [To  himself . 

The  duke 's  to  blame  in  this :  '  T  will  be  ill  taken. 

[Eocit  Gloster  c.  Oswald  approaches  Kent  with 
drawn  sword ;  Kent  strikes  at  him;  Oswald 
runs  into  castle  c.  Scene  changes :  lights  down. 


KING   LEAR.  47 

§>ccrtc  §>cconU. — A  LONELY  HEATH.     DIM  STARLIGHT. 

[Enter  Edgar  L.  I.E. 
Edgar. 

I  heard  myself  proclaimed ; 

And  by  the  happy  hollow  of  a  tree 

Escaped  the  hunt.     No  port  is  free;  no  place, 

That  guard,  and  most  unusual  vigilance, 

Does  not  attend  my  taking.     While  I  may  'scape, 

I  will  preserve  myself;  and  am  bethought 

To  take  the  basest  and  most  poorest  shape, 

That  ever  penury,  in  contempt  of  man, 

Brought  near  to  beast.     My  face  I  '11  grime  with  filth, 

Blanket  my  loins,  elf  all  my  hair  in  knots, 

And  with  presented  nakedness  out-face 

The  winds  and  persecutions  of  the  sky. 

The  country  gives  me  proof  and  precedent 

Of  Bedlam  beggars,  who  with  roaring  voices, 

Strike  in  their  numbed  and  mortified  bare  arms, 

Pins,  wooden  pricks,  nails,  sprigs  of  rosemary; 

And  with  this  horrible  object,  from  low  farms, 

Poor  pelting  villages,  sheep-cotes  and  mills 

Sometime  with  lunatic  bans,  sometime  with  prayers, 

Enforce  their  charity.  —  Poor  Turlygod  !  poor  Tom ! 

That 's  something  yet :  Edgar  I  nothing  am  ! 

[Exit  Edgar  R.  i.  E.     Scene  changes:  lights  up. 


IN  FRONT  OF  GLOSTER'S  CASTLE.      KENT 
DISCOVERED,  ASLEEP,  IN  STOCKS  L.  U.  E. 

[Enter  Lear,  Fool,  and  Lear's  knights,  who  stand 
in  front  of  Kent,  not  seeing  him.  —  N.  B.  He  is 
not  seen  by  them  till  he  speaks. 

Lear. 

:T  is  strange  that  they  should  so  depart  from  home, 
And  not  send  back  my  messenger. 


4  KING    LEAR. 

Fool. 

If  a  man's  brains  were  in  his  heels,  wer  't  not  in  danger 
of  kibes  ? 

Lear. 
Ay,  boy. 

Fool.  [R. 

Then,  I  pr'ythee,  be  merry ;  thy  wit  shall  not  go  slip- 
shod. 

Lear. 
Ha!    ha!   ha! 

Fool 

Shalt  see,  thy  other  daughter  will  use  thee  kindly ;  for 
though  she 's  as  like  this  as  a  crab  is  like  an  apple,  yet  I 
can  tell  what  I  can  tell. 

Lear. 

What  canst  tell,  boy  ? 

Fool. 

She  will  taste  as  like  this  as  a  crab  does  to  a  crab. 
Thou  canst  tell  why  one's  nose  stands  i'  the  middle  of 
his  face  ? 

Lear. 
No. 

Fool. 

Why,  to  keep  his  eyes  on  either  side  his  nose ;  that  what 
a  man  cannot  smell  out  he  may  spy  into. 

Lear. 
I  did  her  wrong !  — 

Fool. 

Canst  tell  how  an  oyster  makes  his  shell  ? 

Lear. 

No. 

Fool. 

Nor  I  neither ;  but  I  can  tell  why  a  snail  has  a  house.  , 


KING    T.EAR.  49 

Lear. 
Why? 

Fool 

Why,   to  put  his  head  in ;  not  to  give  it  away  to  his 
daughters,  and  leave  his  horns  without  a  case. 

Lear. 

I  will  forget  my  nature.     So  kind  a  father!     See  to  my 
horses. 

Fool. 

Thy  asses  are  gone  about  'em.     The  reason  why  the 
seven  stars  are  no  more  than  seven  is  a  pretty  reason. 

Lear. 
Because  they  are  not  eight. 

Fool. 
Yes,  indeed;  thou  wouldst  make  a  good  fool. 

Lear. 
To  take  't  again  perforce !  —  Monster  ingratitude ! 

Fool. 

If  thou  wert  my  fool,  nuncle,  I'd  have  thee  beaten  for 
being  old  before  thy  time. 

Lear. 
How's  that? 

Fool. 

Thou   shouldst    not  have  been  old  before  thou  hadst 
been  wise. 

Lear. 

O,  let  me  not  be  mad,  not  mad,  sweet  heaven ! 
Keep  me  in  temper ;  I  would  not  be  mad ! 

4 


SO  KING    LEAR 

Kent. 

Hail  to  thee,  noble  master ! 

[Knights  fall  back,  disclosing  Kent  in  the  stocks. 

fool. 
Ha,  ha !  Look,  he  wears  cruel  garters. 

Lear. 
Ha! 
Mak'st  thou  this  shame  thy  pastime  ? 

Kent. 
No,  my  lord ! 

Lear. 

What 's  he,  that  hath  so  much  thy  place  mistook, 
To  set  thee  here  ? 

Kent. 

It  is  both  he  and  she ; 
Your  son  and  daughter. 

Lear. 
No! 

Kent. 
Yes! 

Lear. 
No,  I  say. 

Kent. 
I  say,  yea. 

Lear. 
No,  no;  they  would  not. 

Kent. 
Yes,  they  have. 

Lear. 
By  Jupiter,  I  swear,  no. 


KING   LEAR.  51 

Kent. 
By  Juno,  I  swear,  ay. 

Lear. 

They  durst  not  do  it ; 

They  could  not,  would  not  do  't ;  't  is  worse  than  murder, 
To  do  upon  respect  such  violent  outrage. 
Resolve  me  with  all  modest  haste  which  way 
Thou  rnightst  deserve,  or  they  impose,  this  usage, 
Coming  from  us. 

Kent. 

My  lord,  when  at  their  home 

I  did  commend  your  highness'  letter  to  them, 

Ere  I  was  risen  from  the  place  that  showed 

My  duty  kneeling,  came  there  a  reeking  post, 

Stewed  in  his  haste,  half  breathless,  panting  forth 

From  Goneril,  his  mistress,  salutations; 

Delivered  letters,  spite  of  intermission, 

Which  presently  they  read ;  on  whose  contents, 

They  straight  took  horse  ; 

Commanded  me  to  follow,  and  attend 

The  leisure  of  their  answer;  gave  me  cold  looks; 

And,  meeting  here  the  other  messenger, 

Whose  welcome,  I  perceived,  had  poisoned  mine, — 

Being  the  very  fellow  which  of  late 

Displayed  so  saucily  against  your  highness, — 

Having  more  man  than  wit  about  me,  drew ; 

He  raised  the  house  with  loud  and  coward  cries: 

Your  son  and  daughter  found  this  trespass  worth 

The  shame  which  here  it  suffers. 

Fool. 

Winter's  not  gone  yet,  if  the  wild  geese  fly  that  way. 
Thou  shalt  have  as  many  dolours  for  thy  daughters  as 
thou  canst  tell  in  a  year.  \To  Lear. 

Lear. 

O,  how  this  mother  swells  up  toward  my  heart! 
JJystenca passio !     Down,  thou  climbing  sorrow! 
Thy  element's  below.     Where  is  this  daughter? 


52  KING    LEAR. 

• 

Kent. 
With  the  earl,  sir;  here,  within. 

Lear.  {To  all 

Follow  me  not: 
Stay  here. 

{Exit  Lear  c. 

Fool 

Made  you  no  more  offence  but  what  you  speak  of  ? 

Kent. 
None. 
How  chance  the  king  comes  with  so  small  a  train  ? 

Fool. 

An  thou  hadst  been  set  i'  the  stocks  for  that  question, 
thou  hadst  well  deserved  it. 

Kent. 
Why,  fool  ? 

Fool. 

We  '11  set  thee  to  school  to  an  ant,  to  teach  there 's  no 
labouring  i'  the  winter. 

{Sings. 
He  who  serves  and  seeks  for  gain, 

And  follows  but  for  form, 
Will  pack  when  it  begins  to  rain, 

And  leave  thee  in  the  storm; 
But,  I  will  tarry;  the  fool  will  stay, 

And  let  the  wise  man  fly; 
The  knave  turns  fool  that  runs  away, 
The  fool  no  knave,  perdy. 

Kent. 
Where  learned  you  this,  fool  ? 

Fool. 
Not  i'  the  stocks,  fool. 

{Re-enter  Lear  and  Gloster  c. 


KING    LEAR.  53 

Lear. 

Deny  to  speak  with  me  ?    They  are  sick  ?  they  are  weary  ? 
They  have  travelled  all  the  night  ?     Mere  fetches, 
The  images  of  revolt  and  flying  off. 
Fetch  me  a  better  answer. 

Glos.  [R. 

My  dear  lord, 
You  know  the  fiery  quality  of  the  duke. 

Lear. 

Vengeance!     Plague!     Death!     Confusion! 
Fiery  ?     What  quality  ?     Why,  Gloster,  Gloster, 
I  'd  speak  with  the  Duke  of  Cornwall  and  his  wife. 

Glos. 
Well,  my  good  lord,  I  have  informed  them  so. 

Lear. 
Informed  them !  Dost  thou  understand  me,  man  ? 

Glos. 
Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Lear. 

The  king  would  speak  with  Cornwall;  the  dear  father 
Would  with  his  daughter  speak,  commands  her  service : 
Are  they  informed  of  this?     My  breath  and  blood! 
Fiery?     The  fiery  duke! — tell  the  hot  duke  that — 

\Gloster  starts  towards  c. 
No,  but  not  yet: — may  be,  he  is  not  well: 
Infirmity  doth  still  neglect  all  office, 
Whereto  our  health  is  bound ;  we  are  not  ourselves, 
When  nature,  being  oppressed,  commands  the  mind 
To  suffer  with  the  body:  I  '11  forbear; 
And  am  fallen  out  with  my  more  headier  will, 
To  take  the  indisposed  and  sickly  fit 
For  the  sound  man. —  Death  on  my  state !     Wherefore 

{Looking  on  Kent, 
/Should  he  sit  here  ?     This  act  persuades  me 


54  KING   LEAR. 

That  this  remotion  of  the  duke  and  her 
Is  practice  only.     Give  me  my  servant  forth. 
Go,  tell  the  duke  and  's  wife  I  'd  speak  with  them, 
Now,  presently;  bid  them  come  forth  and  hear  me, 
Or  at  their  chamber  door  I  '11  beat  the  drum, 
Till  it  cry — "Sleep  to  death." 

\Enter  Cornwall,  Regan,  lords,  ladies  and  servants  c. 

Corn. 
Hail  to  your  grace. 

[Cornwall  silently  indicates  that  Kent  is  to  bl 
released.  Kent  is  set  at  liberty,  by  the  servants, 
and  goes  R. 

Regan. 

I  am  glad  to  see  your  highness. 

i 
Lear.  [L.  c. 

Regan,  I  think  you  are;  I  know  what  reason 
I  have  to  think  so;  if  thou  shouldst  not  be  glad, 
I  would  divorce  me  from  thy  mother's  tomb, 
Sepulch'ring  an  adultress. —  O !  are  you  free  ? 

[To  Kent,  who  comes  forward  R. 
Some  other  time  for  that. —  Beloved  Regan, 
Thy  sister's  naught:  O,  Regan,  she  hath  tied 
Sharp-toothed  unkindness,  like  a  vulture,  here, — 

[Points  to  his  bosom. 

I  can  scarce  speak  to  thee ;  thou  'It  not  believe 
With  how  depraved  a  quality  —  O,  Regan  ! 

Regan. 

I  pray  you,  sir,  take  patience.     I  have  hope 
You  less  know  how  to  value  her  desert 
Than  she  to  scant  her  duty. 

Lear. 
Say,  how  is  that  ? 


KING   LEAR.  55 

Regan. 

I  cannot  think  my  sister  in  the  least 
Would  fail  her  obligation ;  if,  sir,  perchance, 
She  have  restrained  the  riots  of  your  followers, 
'T  is  on  such  ground,  and  to  such  wholesome  end, 
As  clears  her  from  all  blame. 

Lear. 
My  curses  on  her ! 

Regan. 

O,  sir,  you  are  old; 

Nature  in  you  stands  on  the  very  verge 
Of  her  confine ;  you  should  be  ruled  and  led 
By  some  discretion,  that  discerns  your  state 
Better  than  yourself;  therefore  I  pray  you 
That  to  our  sister  you  do  make  return ; 
Say  you  have  wronged  her,  sir. 

Lear. 

Ask  her  forgiveness  ? 

Do  you  but  mark  how  this  becomes  the  house : 
Dear  daughter,  I  confess  that  I  am  old; 
Age  is  unnecessary ;  on  my  knees  I  beg 
That  you  '11  vouchsafe  me  raiment,  bed,  and  food. 

Regan. 

Good  sir,  no  more ;  these  are  unsightly  tricks  : 
Return  you  to  my  sister. 

Lear. 

Never,  Regan ! 

She  hath  abated  me  of  half  my  train ; 
Looked  black  upon  me;  struck  me  with  her  tongue, 
Most  serpent-like,  upon  the  very  heart :  — 
All  the  stored  vengeances  of  heaven  fall 
On  her  ungrateful  top  !     Strike  her  young  bones, 
You  taking  airs,  with  lameness ! 

Corn. 
Fie,  fie,  fie ! 


56  KING   LEAR. 

Lear. 

You  nimble  lightnings,  dart  your  blinding  flames 
Into  her  scornful  eyes !     Infect  her  beauty, 
You  fen-sucked  fogs,  drawn  by  the  powerful  sun, 
To  fall  and  blast  her  pride ! 

Regan. 

O,  the  blest  gods ! 
So  you  will  wish  on  me  when  the  rash  mood  is  on. 

Lear. 

No,  Regan,  thou  shalt  never  have  my  curse ; 
Thy  tender-hested  nature  shall  not  give 
Thee  o'er  to  harshness :  thou  better  know'st 
The  offices  of  nature,  bond  of  childhood, 
Effects  of  courtesy,  dues  of  gratitude ; 
Thy  half  o'  the  kingdom  hast  thou  not  forgot, 
Wherein  I  thee  endowed. 

Regan. 
Good  sir,  to  the  purpose. 

Lear. 

Who  put  my  man  i'  the  stocks  ? 

[Trumpets  within  pp. 
Corn. 
What  trumpet 's  that  ? 

Regan. 

I  know  't,  my  sister's. 

Lear.  [Looking  off  ~L. 

This  is  a  slave  whose  easy-borrowed  pride 
Dwells  in  the  fickle  grace  of  her  he  follows. 

[Enter  Oswalds 
Out,  varlet,  from  my  sight ! 

[Strikes  Oswald,  who  retires. 


KING    LEAR.  57 

Corn. 
What  means  your  grace  ? 

Lear. 

Who  stocked  my  servant  ?     Regan,  I  have  good  hope 
Thou  didst  not  know  on 't.    {Trumpet  p. \     Who  comes 

here  ? 

O,  heavens! 

If  you  do  love  old  men,  if  your  sweet  sway 
Allow  obedience,  if  yourselves  are  old, 
Make  it  your  cause ;  send  down  and  take  my  part ! 

\Enter  Goneril,  lords,  and  ladies  L.  I.E. 

Art  not  ashamed  to  look  upon  this  beard  ?  —  [  To  Goneril. 

\Regan  advances  to  take  Goneril  by  hand.     Leaf 

interposes. 
O,  Regan,  wilt  thou  take  her  by  the  hand  ? 

Gon.  [  To  Lear. 

Why  not  by  the  hand,  sir  ?     How  have  I  offended  ? 
All 's  not  offence  that  indiscretion  finds, 
And  dotage  terms  so. 

Lear. 
O,  heart !    you  are  too  tough !  —  too  tough ! 

Regan.  [  To  Lear. 

I  pray  you,  father,  being  weak,  seem  so. 

If,  till  the  expiration  of  your  month, 

You  will  return  and  sojourn  with  my  sister, 

Dismissing  half  your  train,  come  then  to  me ; 

I  am  now  from  home,  and  out  of  that  provision 

Which  shall  be  needful  for  your  entertainment. 

Lear. 

Return  to  her  ?  and  fifty  men  dismissed  ? 
No,  rather  I  abjure  alt  roofs,  and  choose 
To  wage  against  the  enmity  o'  the  air ; 
To  be  a  comrade  with  the  wolf  and  owl  — 
Necessity's  sharp  pinch  !  —  return  with  her? 


5  KING    LEAR. 

Why,  the  hot-blooded  France,  that  dowerless  took 
Our  youngest  born,  —  I  could  as  well  be  brought 
To  knee  his  throne,  and,  squire-like,  pension  beg 
To  keep  base  life  afoot. 

Gon. 
At  your  choice,  sir. 

Lear. 

I  pr'ythee,  daughter,  do  not  make  me  mad ; 

I  will  not  trouble  thee,  my  child ;  farewell ; 

We  '11  no  more  meet,  no  more  see  one  another ; 

But  yet  thou  art  my  flesh,  my  blood,  my  daughter ; 

Or  rather,  a  disease  that 's  in  my  flesh, 

Which  I  must  needs  call  mine ;  but  I  '11  not  chide  thee ; 

Let  shame  come  when  it  will,  I  do  not  call  it ; 

I  do  not  bid  the  thunder-bearer  shoot, 

Nor  tell  tales  of  thee  to  high-judging  Jove : 

Mend,  when  thou  canst ;  be  better  at  thy  leisure  : 

I  can  be  patient ;  I  can  stay  with  Regan, 

I,  and  my  hundred  knights. 

Regan. 

Not  altogether  so ; 

I  looked  not  for  you  yet,  nor  am  provided 
For  your  fit  welcome. 

Lear. 
Is  this  well  spoken  ? 

Regan. 

What !  fifty  followers  ? 

Is  it  not  well  ?     What  should  you  need  of  more  ? 
Yea,  or  so  many,  sith  that  both  charge  and  danger 
Speak  'gainst  so  great  a  number. 

Gon. 

Why  might  not  you,  my  lord,  receive  attendance 
From  those  that  she  calls  servants,  or  from  mine  ? 


KING   LEAR.  59 

Regan. 

Why  not,  my  lord  ?     If  then  they  chanced  to  slack  you, 
We  could  controul  them  :  if  you  will  come  to  me, — 
For  now  I  spy  a  danger, —  I  entreat  you 
To  bring  but  five  and  twenty ;  to  no  more 
Will  I  give  place  or  notice. 

Lear. 

I  gave  you  all 

Regan. 

And  in  good  time  you  gave  it 
Lear. 

Made  you  my  guardians,  my  depositaries, 

But  kept  a  reservation  to  be  followed 

With  such  a  number.     What !   must  I  come  to  you 

With  five  and  twenty  ?     Regan,  said  you  so  ? 

Regan. 
And  speak 't  again,  my  lord ;  no  more  with  me. 

Lear. 

Those  wicked  creatures  yet  do  look  well  favoured 
When  others  are  more  wicked ;  not  being  the  worst, 
Stands  in  some  rank  of  praise :  —  I  '11  go  with  thee. 

[To  Goneril. 

Thy  fifty  yet  doth  double  five  and  twenty, 
And  thou  art  twice  her  love. 

Gon. 

Hear  me,  my  lord  : 

What  need  you  five  and  twenty,  ten,  or  five, 
To  follow  in  a  house  where  twice  so  many 
Have  a  command  to  tend  you  ? 

Regan. 
What  need  one  ? 


60  KING    LEAR. 

Lear. 

O,  reason  not  the  need ;  our  basest  beggars 

Are  in  the  poorest  thing  superfluous. 

Allow  not  nature  more  than  nature  needs, 

Man's  life  is  cheap  as  beast's.     Thou  art  a  lady  ; 

If  only  to  go  warm  were  gorgeous, 

Why,  nature  needs  not  what  thou  gorgeous  wear'st, 

Which  scarcely  keeps  thee  warm.     But  for  true  need, — 

You  heavens  give  me  patience,  patience  I  need ! 

You  see  me  here,  you  gods,  a  poor  old  man, 

As  full  of  grief  as  age ;  wretched  in  both : 

If  it  be  you  that  stir  these  daughters'  hearts 

Against  their  father,  fool  me  not  so  much 

To  bear  it  tamely ;  touch  me  with  noble  anger ! 

O !  let  not  woman's  weapons,  water-drops, 

Stain  my  man's  cheeks !     No,  you  unnatural  hags, 

I  will  have  such  revenges  on  you  both 

That  all  the  world  shall — I  will  do  such  things, — 

What  they  are  yet  I  know  not,  but,  they  shall  be 

The  terrors  of  the  earth !  [Fool  comes  down  L. 

You  think  I  '11  weep ; 

No,  I'll  not  weep;  — 

I  have  full  cause  of  weeping — 

But  this  heart 

Shall  break  into  a  hundred  thousand  flaws, 

Or  ere  I  '11  weep !  —  O,  fool !  I  shall  go  mad ! 

[Exeunt  Lear,  Kent  and  fool  L.  I.  E. 

CURTAIN. 


(  A  ROOM  IN  GLOSTER'S  CASTLE.     FAINT 
JFtreft.    <      NOISE    OF    STORM   HEARD,  NOW  AND 
(     THEN. 

[Enter  Gloster  and  Edmund  L.  I.E. 

Glos. 

Alack !  alack,  Edmund,  I  like  not  this  unnatural  deal- 
ing. When  I  desired  their  leave  that  I  might  pity  him, 
they  took  from  me  the  use  of  mine  own  house ;  charged 
me,  on  pain  of  their  perpetual  displeasure,  neither  to 
speak  of  him,  entreat  for  him,  nor  any  way  sustain  him. 

Edm. 
Most  savage  and  unnatural ! 

Glos. 

Go  to ;  say  you  nothing  :  there  is  division  between  the 
dukes,  and  a  worse  matter  than  that.  Read  this  letter 
[gives  him  a  letter}  I  have  received  to-night ;  —  'tis  danger- 
ous to  be  spoken.  These  injuries  the  king  now  bears  will 
be  revenged  home.  There  is  a  part  of  a  power  already 
footed.  We  must  incline  to  the  king.  I  will  seek  him 
and  privily  relieve  him.  Go  you,  and  maintain  talk  with 
the  duke,  that  my  charity  be  not  of  him  perceived.  If  he 
ask  for  me,  I  am  ill,  and  gone  to  bed.  If  I  die  for  it,  as 
no  less  is  threatened  me,  the  king,  my  old  master,  must  be 
relieved.  There  is  strange  things  toward,  Edmund ;  pray 
you  be  careful. 

[Exit  Gloster  R.  I.E. 


62  KING   LEAR. 

Edm. 

This  courtesy  forbid  thee  shall  the  duke 
Instantly  know ;  and  of  this  letter  too : 

[Looking  upon  letter. 

This  seems  a  fair  deserving,  and  must  draw  me 
That  which  my  father  loses ;  no  less  than  all : 
The  younger  rises  when  the  old  doth  fall. 

[Enter  Cornwall  L.  I.E. 

Corn. 
Where  is  your  father,  Edmund  ? 

Edm. 

How  malicious  is  my  fortune,  that  I  must  repent  to  be 
just!  He  hath  gone  to  relieve  the  king; — and  see,  this 
letter  approves  him  an  intelligent  party  to  the  advantages 
of  France,  whose  armies  now  are  moving.  O,  heaven ! 
that  this  treason  were  not,  or  not  I  the  detector ! 

Corn.  {Takes  letter. 

I  will  have  my  revenge  ere  I  depart  this  house. 

Edm. 

If  the  matter  of  this  paper  be  certain,  you  have  mighty 
business  in  hand. 

Corn. 

True  or  false,  it  hath  made  thee  Earl  of  Gloster.  Seek 
out  where  thy  father  is,  that  he  may  be  ready  for  our 
apprehension. 

Edm. 

If  I  find  him  comforting  the  king,  I  will  stuff  his  sus- 
picion more  fully.  I  will  persevere  in  my  course  of  loyalty, 
though  the  conflict  be  sore  between  that  and  my  blood. 


KING   LEAR.  63 

Corn. 

I  will  lay  trust  upon  thee ;  thou  shalt  find 
A  dearer  father  in  my  love. 
Edmund,  farewell.     Go,  seek  the  traitor  Gloster : 
Pinion  him  like  a  thief,  bring  him  before  us. 
Though  well  we  may  not  pass  upon  his  life 
Without  the  form  of  justice,  yet  our  power 
Shall  do  a  courtesy  to  our  wrath,  which  men 
May  blame,  but  not  controul. 

{Exeunt  Edmund  R.,  Cornwall  L. 


(  A  HEATH.    STORM.    LOUD  AND  CONTIN- 
SeconU.  <      UED  WIND  AND  RAIN.  LIGHTNING  AND 
(      THUNDER.     LEAR  DISCOVERED. 

Lear. 

Blow,  winds,  and  crack  your  cheeks !  rage !  blow ! 
You  cataracts  and  hurricanoes,  spout, 
Till  you  have  drenched  our  steeples,  drowned  the  cocks ! 

[Lightning. 

You  sulphurous  and  thought-executing  fires, 
Vaunt  couriers  of  oak-cleaving  thunder-bolts, 
Singe  my  white  head !  [  Thunder. 

And  thou,  all-shaking  thunder, 
Strike  flat  the  thick  rotundity  o'  the  world ! 
Crack  nature's  moulds,  all  germins  spill  at  once 
That  make  ingrateful  man ! 

[Rain   and  thunder  and  noise  of  the   whistling 
blast. 

[Enter  Fool  L.  u.  E. 
Fool. 

O,  nuncle,  court  holy-water  in  a  dry  house  is  better 
than  this  rain-water  out  o'  door.  Good  nuncle,  in  and 
ask  thy  daughters'  blessing ;  here 's  a  night  pities  neither 
wise  men  nor  fools.  [Thunder. 


4  KING   LEAR. 

Lear. 

Rumble  thy  belly- full !  spit  fire !  spout  rain ! 
Nor  rain,  wind,  thunder,  fire,  are  my  daughters: 
I  tax  not  you,  you  elements,  with  unkindness; 
I  never  gave  you  kingdom,  called  you  children ; 
You  owe  me  no  subscription  :  then  let  fall 
Your  horrible  pleasure;  here  I  stand,  your  slave, 
A  poor,  infirm,  weak,  and  despised  old  man :  — 
But  yet  I  call  you  servile  ministers, 
That  will  with  two  pernicious  daughters  join 
Your  high-engendered  battles  'gainst  a  head 
So  old  and  white  as  this.     O,  O,  't  is  foul! 

[  Thunder,  rain,  and  wind.     Enter  Kent  L.  u.  E. 

Kent. 
Who 's  there  ? 

Fool. 
Marry,  a  wise  man  and  a  fool. 

Kent.  \To  Lear. 

Alas,  sir,  are  you  here  ?     Things  that  love  night 
Love  not  such  nights  as  these;  the  wrathful  skies 
Gallow  the  very  wanderers  of  the  dark, 
And  make  them  keep  their  caves. 

[Lightning  and  loud  thunder. 

Lear. 

Let  the  great  gods, 

That  keep  this  dreadful  pudder  o'er  our  heads, 
Find  out  their  enemies  now.     Tremble,  thou  wretch, 
That  hast  within  thee  undivuiged  crimes, 
Unwhipped  of  justice:  hide  thee,  thou  bloody  hand; 
Thou  perjured,  and  thou  simular  of  virtue 
That  art  incestuous :  caitiff  to  pieces  shake, 
That  under  covert  and  convenient  seeming 


KING   LEAR.  65 

Hast  practised  on  man's  life :  close  pent-up  guilts, 

Rive  your  concealing  continents,  and  cry 

These  dreadful  summoners  grace. — 

I  am  a  man, 

More  sinned  against  than  sinning. 

[  Thunder,  very  loud. 
Kent. 

Gracious,  my  lord,  hard  by  there  is  a  hovel; 
Some  friendship  will  it  lend  you  'gainst  the  tempest. 

[Loud  sound  of  rain. 
Lear. 

My  wits  begin  to  turn. — 
Come  on,  my  boy.     How  dost,  my  boy?     Art  cold? 

[To  Fool. 

I  am  cold,  myself.  —  Where  is  this  straw,  my  fellow? 
The  art  of  our  necessities  is  strange, 
That  can  make  vile  things  precious.     Come,  your  hovel. 
Poor  fool  and  knave,  I  have  one  part  in  my  heart 
That's  sorry  yet  for  thee. 

Fool. 

[Sings.    All  quiet,  meanwhile, 

He  that  has  a  little  tiny  wit, — 
With  heigh,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, — 
Must  make  content  with  his  fortunes  fit; 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

Lear. 

True,  my  good  boy.  [Distant  thunder  and  rain. 

Kent. 

[Pointing  to  hovel  L.  u.  E. 

Here  is  the  place,  my  lord;  good  my  lord,  enter: 
The  tyranny  of  the  open  night's  too  rough 
For  nature  to  endure. 

[Storm  sounds  heard,  but  faintly — seeming  to  die 
away. 

Lear. 
Let  me  alone. 

5 


KING   LEAR. 

Kent. 
Good  my  lord,  enter  here. 

Lear. 

Wilt  break  my  heart  ? 

Kent. 

I  'd  rather  break  mine  own.     Good  my  lord,  enter. 

Lear. 

Thou  think'st  'tis  much,  that  this  contentious  storm 

Invades  us  to  the  skin :  so,  't  is,  to  thee ; 

But  where  the  greater  malady  is  fixed 

The  lesser  is  scarce  felt.     Thou'dst  shun  a  bear; 

But  if  thy  flight  lay  toward  the  roaring  sea 

Thou  'dst  meet  the  bear  i'  the  mouth.     When  the  mind 's 

free, 

The  body 's  delicate :  the  tempest  in  my  mind 
Doth  from  my  senses  take  all  feeling  else, 
Save  what  beats  there. —  Filial  ingratitude ! 
Is  it  not  as  this  mouth  should  tear  this  hand, 
For  lifting  food  to  't  ?     But  I  will  punish  home. — 
No,  I  will  weep  no  more. 

[  Thunder  and  rain. 
In  such  a  night 

To  shut  me  out!  pour  on;  I  will  endure:  — 
In  such  a  night  as  this!     O,  Regan,  Goneril! 
Your  old,  kind  father,  whose  frank  heart  gave  all;  — 
O,  that  way  madness  lies;  let  me  shun  that; 
No  more  of  that. 

Kent.  [L. 

Good  my  lord,  enter  here  ? 

Lear. 

Pr'ythee  go  in  thyself;  seek  thine  own  ease; 

This  tempest  will  not  give  me  leave  to  ponder 

On  things  would  hurt  me  more. —  But  I'll  go  in; 

In  boy;  go  first.  [To  Fool. 

You  houseless  poverty, — 


KING    LEAR.  67 

[Kent  and  Fool  endeavour  to  lead  Lear, 
Nay,  get  thee  in.     1  '11  pray,  and  then  I  '11  sleep. 

\Fool  goes  into  hovel  L.  u.  E. 
Poor  naked  wretches,  wheresoe'er  you  are, 
That  bide  the  pelting  of  this  pitiless  storm, 
How  shall  your  houseless  heads,  and  unfed  sides, 
Your  looped  and  windowed  raggedness,  defend  you 
From  seasons  such  as  these  ?     O,  I  have  ta'en 
Too  little  care  of  this !     Take  physic,  pomp ; 
Expose  thyself  to  feel  what  wretches  feel ; 
That  thou  may'st  shake  the  superflux  to  them, 
And  show  the  heavens  more  just.  {Thunder. 

Fool.  [  Within. 

Help!  help!  help! 

Edgar.  [  Within. 

Fathom  and  half,  fathom  and  half!     Poor  Tom! 

Fool.  [  Within. 

Come  not  in  here,  nuncle;  here's  a  spirit. 
Help  me  !  help  me  ! 

Kent. 

Give  me  thy  hand. 
Who's  there? 

[To  Fool, —  who  enters  L.  u.  E.  and  runs  to  Lear. 

Fool. 
A  spirit,  a  spirit;  he  says  his  name's  poor  Tom. 

Kent. 

What  are  thou  that  dost  grumble  there  i'  the  straw  ? 
Come  forth ! 

[Enter  from  the  hovel  L.  u.  E.  Edgar,  disguised  as 
a  madman.  He  runs  to  R.  Kent  comes  behind 
Lear  and  interposes  between  him  and  Edgar. 

Edgar. 

Away !  the  foul  fiend  follows  me ! 

Through  the  sharp  hawthorn  blows  the  cold  wind : 

Humph !  go  to  thy  cold  bed,  and  warm  thee. 


68  KING   LEAR. 

Lear.  [To  Edgar. 

Hast  thou  given  all  to  thy  two  daughters  ? 
And  art  thou  come  to  this  ? 

Edgar.  [R. 

Who  gives  anything  to  poor  Tom,  whom  the  foul  fiend 
hath  led  through  fire  and  through  flame,  through  ford 
and  whirlpool,  over  bog  and  quagmire;  that  hath  laid 
knives  under  his  pillow,  and  halters  in  his  pew ;  made  him 
proud  of  heart,  to  ride  on  a  bay  trotting-horse  over  four- 
inched  bridges,  to  course  his  own  shadow  for  a  traitor. 
Bless  thy  five  wits ! 

[  Wind  and  rain. 

Tom 's  a-cold.  O,  do  de,  do  de,  do  de.  Bless  thee  from 
whirlwinds,  star-blasting  and  taking !  Do  poor  Tom  some 
charity,  whom  the  foul  fiend  vexes.  There  could  I  have 
him  now, —  and  there, —  and  there, —  and  there  again,  and 
there. 

[Rain,  and  rumble  of  distant  thunder. 

Lear. 

What!  have  his  daughters  brought  him  to  this  pass? 

[To  Edgar. 
Couldst  thou  save  nothing  ?     Didst  thou  give  them  all  ? 

Fool. 
Nay,  he  reserved  a  blanket,  else  we  had  been  all  shamed. 

Lear. 

Now  all  the  plagues  that  in  the  pendulous  air 
Hang  fated  o'er  men's  faults,  fall  on  thy  daughters ! 

Kent. 
He  hath  no  daughters,  sir. 

Lear. 

Death,  traitor  !     Nothing  could  have  subdued  nature 
To  such  a  lowness,  but  his  unkind  daughters ! 
Is  it  the  fashion  that  discarded  fathers 


KING   LEAR.  69 

Should  have  thus  little  mercy  on  their  flesh  ? 

[Draws  a  thorn,  or  wooden  spike,  from  Edgar's 

arm  and  tries  to  thrust  it  into  his  own. 
Judicious  punishment !  'T  was  this  flesh  begot 
Those  pelican  daughters. 

[Edgar  seizes  Lear's  hand  and  takes  away  the  thorn. 

Edgar. 

Pillicock  sat  on  Pillicock-hill ;  — 
Halloo,  halloo,  loo,  loo! 

Fool. 
This  night  will  turn  us  all  to  fools  and  madmen. 

Edgar. 

Take  heed  o'  the  foul  fiend.  Obey  thy  parents ;  keep 
thy  word  justly ;  swear  not ;  commit  not  with  man's  sworn 
spouse;  set  not  thy  sweet  heart  on  proud  array.  Tom  's 
a-cold. 

Lear. 

What  hast  thou  been  ? 

Edgar. 

A  serving  man,  proud  in  heart  and  mind ;  that  curled 
my  hair ;  wore  gloves  in  my  cap  ;  swore  as  many  oaths  as 
I  spake  words,  and  broke  them  in  the  sweet  face  of  heaven. 
Wine  loved  I  deeply  ;  dice  dearly ;  false  of  heart,  light  of 
ear,  bloody  of  hand ;  hog  in  sloth,  fox  in  stealth,  wolf  in 
greediness,  dog  in  madness,  lion  in  prey.  Let  not  the 
creaking  of  shoes,  nor  the  rustling  of  silks,  betray  thy 
poor  heart  to  woman :  keep  thy  foot  out  of  brothels,  thy 
hand  out  of  plackets,  thy  pen  from  lenders'  books,  and 
defy  the  foul  fiend.  —  Still  through  the  hawthorn  blows  the 
cold  wind.  Sessa,  sessa  !  Ha,  no,  nonny.  Dolphin,  my 
boy,  my  boy ;  sessa  !  sessa  !  Let  him  trot  by. 

[Distant  rain  and  thunder. 


7°  KING   LEAR. 

Lear. 

Why,  thou  wert  better  in  thy  grave  than  to  answer  with 
thy  uncovered  body  this  extremity  of  the  skies.  Is  man 
no  more  than  this  ?  Consider  him  well.  Thou  owest 
the  worm  no  silk,  the  beast  no  hide,  the  sheep  no  wool, 
the  cat  no  perfume.  —  Ha  !  here 's  three  of  us  are  sophisti- 
cated; thou  art  the  thing  itself:  unaccommodated  man  is 
no  more  but  such  a  poor,  bare,  forked  animal  as  thou 
art. —  Off!  off!  you  lendings:  — come;  unbutton  here. 

[Lear  essays  to  tear  off  his  clothes. 

Fool.  [Preventing  him. 

Pr'ythee,  nuncle,  be  contented ;  't  is  a  naughty  night  to 
swim  in.  Look,  here  comes  a  walking  fire. 

[Pointing  L.  2.  E. 
Edgar. 

This  is  the  foul  fiend,  Flibbertigibbet;  he  begins  at 
curfew,  and  walks  till  the  first  cock ;  he  gives  the  web  and 
the  pin,  squints  the  eye,  and  makes  the  hare-lip;  mildews 
the  white  wheat,  and  hurts  the  poor  creature  of  earth. 

Saint  Withold  footed  thrice  the  wold ; 

He  met  the  night-mare  and  her  nine-fold ; 

Bid  her  alight,  and  her  troth  plight, 

And,  aroint  thee,  witch,  aroint  thee ! 

Kent. 

[Speaking  to  those  who  approach. 
Who  's  there.     What  is  't  you  seek  ? 

[Lear  sits  on  a  fallen  tree,     fool  sits  at  his  /eft. 
Kent  at  L.  back. 

GIos.  [Calling,  within. 

What  are  you  there  ?     Your  names  ? 

[Enter  Gloster,  and  two  servants  with  torches,  L.  2.  E. 

Edgar. 

Poor  Tom  ;  that  eats  the  swimming  frog,  the  toad,  the 
tadpole,  the  wall-ne-.vt,  and  the  water;  that,  in  the  fury  of 
his  heart,  when  the  foul  fiend  rages,  swallows  the  old  rat, 


KING    LEAR.  71 

and  the  ditch  dog;  drinks  the  green  mantle  of  the  stand- 
ing pool ;  who  is  whipped  from  tything  to  tything,  and 
stocked,  punished,  and  imprisoned ;  who  hath  had  three 
suits  to  his  back,  six  shirts  to  his  body,  horse  to  ride,  and 
weapon  to  wear. 

But  mice  and  rats,  and  such  small  deer, 
Have  been  Tom's  food  for  seven  long  year. 
Beware  my  follower :  —  Peace,  Smolkin ;  peace,  thou  fiend ! 
[Edgar  goes  to  Lear  c.      Gloster  takes  torch  and 
sends  off  sen>a?its,  who  go  out  L.  2.  E. 

Glos.  [To  Lear. 

What,  hath  your  grace  no  better  company  ? 

Edgar. 

The  prince  of  darkness  is  a  gentleman; 
Modo  he  's  called,  and  Mahu. 

Glos. 

Our  flesh  and  blood,  my  lord,  is  grown  so  vile 
That  it  doth  hate  what  gets  it. 

Edgar. 
Poor  Tom  's  a-cold. 

Glos.  [To  Lear. 

Go  in  with  me  :  my  duty  cannot  suffer 
To  obey  in  all  your  daughters'  hard  commands ! 
Though  their  injunction  be  to  bar  my  doors, 

[  Thunder  and  lightning. 

And  let  this  tyrannous  night  take  hold  upon  you, 
Yet  have  I  ventured  to  come  seek  you  out, 
And  bring  you  where  both  fire  and  food  is  ready. 

Lear. 

First  let  me  talk  with  this  philosopher.  [Thunder. 

What  is  the  cause  of  thunder  ?  [  To  Edgar. 

Kent. 
Good  my  lord,  take  his  offer. 


•jz  KING  LEAR. 

Lear. 

I  '11  talk  a  word  with  this  same  learned  Theban :  — 
What  is  your  study  ?  [To  Edgar. 

Edgar. 

How  to  prevent  the  fiend,  and  to  kill  vermin. 

Lear. 

Let  me  ask  you  one  word  in  private. 

[Jff  whispers  to  Edgar. 
Kent.  [To  Gloster. 

Importune  him  once  more  to  go,  my  lord; 
His  wits  begin  to  unsettle. 

Glos. 

Canst  thou  blame  him  ? 

His  daughters  seek  his  death: — ah,  that  good  Kent! 
He  said  it  would  be  thus :  poor  banished  man. 
I  '11  tell  thee,  friend, 
I  am  almost  mad  myself;  I  had  a  son, 
Now  outlawed  from  my  blood :  he  sought  my  life, 

[Edgar  liste/is,  and  evinces  emotion. 
But  lately,  very  late :  I  loved  him,  friend, — 
No  father  his  son  dearer:  true  to  tell  thee, 
The  grief  hath  crazed  my  wits. 

[  Sou/nh  of  tempest. 
What  a  night 's  this  ! 

I  do  beseech  your  grace [To  Lear. 

Lear. 

I  '11  see  their  trial  first. —  Bring  in  the  evidence. 
Thou  robed  man  of  justice,  take  thy  place;        [To  Edgar. 
And  thou,  his  yoke-fellow  of  equity,  [To  Fool. 

Bench  by  his  side. 

[Fool  runs  to  R.  of  Lear  and  sits  near  him. 
Now,  you  she-foxes! 

Edgar. 

\As  if  stroking  a  cat  beside  him  at  R. 
Purr!  the  cat  is  grey! 


KING    LEAR.  73 

Lear. 

Arraign  her  first :  't  is  Goneril. 
And  here's  another,  whose  warped  looks  proclaim 
What  store  her  heart  is  made  of. —  Stop  her  there ! 
Arms,  arms,  sword,  fire!  —  Corruption  in  the  place! 
False  justicer,  why  hast  thou  let  her  'scape? 

Edgar. 

Bless  thy  five  wits ! 

Kent. 

O,  pity!  —  Sir,  where  is  the  patience  now, 

That  you  so  oft  have  boasted  to  retain  ?  [  To  Lear. 

Lear. 

To  have  a  thousand,  with  red  burning  spits 
Come  hissing  in  upon  them ! 

Edgar.  [Aside. 

My  tears  begin  to  take  his  part  so  much, 
They  '11  mar  my  counterfeiting. 

Lear. 

The  little  dogs  and  all, 
Tray,  Blanch,  and  Sweet-heart,  see,  they  bark  at  me. 

Edgar.  [R. 

Tom  will  throw  his  head  at  them.  [Rises. 

Avaunt,  you  curs! 

Be  thy  mouth  or  black  or  white, 

Tooth  that  poisons  if  it  bite ; 

Mastiff,  greyhound,  mongrel  grim, 

Hound  or  spaniel,  brach  or  lym; 

Or  bobtail  tike  or  trundle-tail, 

Tom  will  make  him  weep  and  wail: 

For,  with  throwing  thus  my  head, 

[  Throws  straw  crown  to  L. 

Dogs  leap  the  hatch,  and  all  are  fled. 
Sessa!  —  Come,  march   to  wakes  and   fairs  and  market- 
towns  :  —  [  Crosses  \. 
Poor  Tom,  thy  horn  is  dry. 


74  KING   LEAR. 

Lear.  {To  Edgar. 

You  sir,  I  entertain  for  one  of  my  hundred;  only,  I  do 
not  like  the  fashion  of  your  garments:  you  will  say  they 
are  Persian;  but  let  them  be  changed. 

Edgar. 

{Crouching  at  the  feet  of  Lear. 

Fratteretto  calls  me,  and  tells  me  Nero  is  an  angler  in 
the  lake  of  darkness.  Pray,  innocent,  and  beware  the  foul 
fiend. 

Kent.  {To  Lear. 

Now,  good  my  lord,  go  in,  and  rest  awhile. 

Edgar 
Tom's  a-cold. 

Glos.  { Touches  Edgar. 

In  fellow,  there,  into  the  hovel:  keep  thee  warm. 

[  Gloster  goes  to  L.  corner. 

Edgar.  {Rising  slowly. 

Childe  Rowland  to  the  dark  tower  came; 
His  word  was  still — Fie,  foh,  and  fum, 
I  smell  the  blood  of  a  British  man. 

{Exit  Edgar  L.  u.  E. 

{At  Edgars  exit  Gloster  comes  behind,  from  L., 
gives  torch  to  Fool,  and  stands  at  R.  of  Lear, 
ready  to  place  him  on  the  bier.  Lear,  left  by 
Edgar,  gradually  sinks  into  the  arms  of  Kent, 
who  stands  beside  him  at  L. 

{Enter  two  servants  with  a  bier ;  they  place  it  L. 
I.E.,  and  retire  up. 

Lear. 

Then  let  them  anatomize  Regan;  see  what  breeds  about 
her  heart :  is  there  any  cause  in  nature  that  makes  these 
hard  hearts  ? 

{Kent  and  Gloster  gently  place  Lear  on  the  bier. 

Hush!  Hush!  Make  no  noise  —  make  no  noise:  draw 
the  curtains:  so  —  so,  so;  we'll  go  to  supper  i'  the  morn- 
ing. So — so,  so. 


KING    LEAR.  75 

Fool. 
And  I  '11  go  bed  at  noon. 

[Kent,  Gloster,  and  the  two  servants  lift  the  bier 
gently,  and  carry  it  slowly  towards  R.  2.  E.  As 
they  are  crossing  the  Fool  sings : 

Fool. 

He  that  hath  a  little  tiny  wit, 

With  heigh,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, — 

Must  make  content  with  his  fortunes  fit, 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day ! 

SLOW   CURTAIN. 


•K.'-  ;:-- 

>r 


&         f   «t     J  HEATH.    SAME  AS  IN  ACT  THIRD.    DAY- 
e  J    6  .    •i      LIGHT  AND  FAIR  WEATHER. 


[Enter  Albany  and  a  herald. 

Herald. 
O,  my  lord ! 

The  Duke  of  Cornwall 's  dead ;  slain  by  his  servant, 
While  putting  out  the  eyes  of  Gloster. 

Alb. 

Gloster's  eyes !     This  shows  you  are  above, 
You  justicers,  that  these  our  nether  crimes 
So  speedily  can  venge !     But,  O,  poor  Gloster ! 
Lost  he  his  eyes  ? 

Herald. 
Yes,  my  lord. 

Alb. 

Where  was  his  son  ? 
Knows  he  the  wickedness  ? 

Herald. 

Ay,  my  good  lord,  't  was  he  informed  against  him ; 
And  quit  the  house  on  purpose  that  their  punishment 
Might  have  the  freer  course. 

Alb. 

Gloster,  I  live, 

To  thank  thee  for  the  love  thou  show'dst  the  king, 
And  to  revenge  thee  !     Come  friend, 
Tell  me  what  more  thou  knowest. 

[Exeunt  R.  i.  E.     Enter  Edgar,  from  hovels,  u.  B. 


KING    LEAR.  77 

Edgar. 

Yet  better  thus  and  known  to  be  contemned 
Than  still  contemned  and  flattered:  to  be  worst, 
The  lowest  and  most  dejected  thing  of  fortune, 
Stand  still  in  esperance,  lives  not  in  fear ; 
The  lamentable  change  is  from  the  best ; 
The  worst  returns  to  laughter.     Welcome,  then,    ' 
Thou  unsubstantial  air,  that  I  embrace  : 
The  wretch  that  thou  hast  blown  unto  the  worst 
Owes  nothing  to  thy  blasts.     But  who  comes  here  ? 
My  father,  poorly  led  ?     World,  world,  O,  world  ! 
But  that  thy  strange  mutations  make  us  hate  thee, 

\Enter  Gloster,  led  by  an  old  man. 
Life  would  not  yield  to  age. 

Old  Man. 

O,  my  good  lord,  I  have  been  your  tenant,  and  your 
father's  tenant,  these  fourscore  years. 

Glos. 

Away,  get  thee  away  !     Good  friend,  begone ; 
Thy  comforts  can  do  me  no  good  at  all ; 
Thee  they  may  hurt. 

Old  Man. 

Alack,  sir,  you  cannot  see  your  way. 

Glos. 

I  have  no  way,  and  therefore  want  no  eyes  : 

I  stumbled  when  I  saw. 

Ah,  dear  son,  Edgar, 

The  food  of  thy  abused  father's  wrath, 

Might  I  but  live  to  see  thee  in  my  touch, 

I  'd  say  I  had  my  eyes  again ! 

Old  Man. 
How  now  !     Who's  there  ? 

Edgar.  [Aside. 

O,  gods  !     Who  is  "t  can  say,  I  am  at  the  worst  ? 
I  am  worse  than  e'er  I  was. 


7  8  KING    LEAR. 

Old  Man. 
Tis  poor  mad  Tom. 

Edgar.  [Aside. 

And  worse  I  may  be  yet :  the  worst  is  not, 
So  long  as  we  can  say,  "  This  is  the  worst." 

Old  Man. 
Fellow,  where  goest  ? 

Glos. 
Is  it  a  beggar-man  ? 

Old  Man. 
Madman  and  beggar  too. 

Glos. 

He  has  some  reason,  else  he  could  not  beg. 

I'  the  last  night's  storm  I  such  a  fellow  saw, 

Which  made  me  think  a  man  a  worm  :  my  son 

Came  then  into  my  mind  :  and  yet  my  mind 

Was  then  scarce  friends  with  him;    I  have  heard  more 

since. 

As  flies  to  wanton  boys  are  we  to  the  gods ; 
They  kill  us  for  their  sport. 

Edgar.  [Aside. 

How  should  this  be  ? 

Bad  is  the  trade  that  must  play  fool  to  sorrow, 
Angering  itself  and  others. 

[To   Gloster. —  Edgar  assumes   the    voice   of   the 

Bedlamite  when  speaking  to  Gloster. 
Bless  thee,  master ! 

Glos. 
Is  that  the  naked  fellow  ? 

Old  Man. 
Ay,  my  lord. 


KING    LEAR.  79 

Glos. 

Then  pr  'ythee,  get  thee  gone.     If,  for  my  sake, 
Thou  wilt  o'ertake  us,  hence  a  mile  or  twain, 
I'  the  way  toward  Dover,  do  it  for  ancient  love; 
And  bring  some  covering  for  this  naked  soul, 
Whom  I  '11  entreat  to  lead  me. 

Old  Man. 
Alack,  sir  !  he  is  mad. 

Glos. 

'Tis  the  time's  plague,  when  madmen  lead  the  blind. 
Do  as  I  bid  thee,  or  rather  do  thy  pleasure ; 
Above  the  rest,  be  gone. 

Old  Man.  [  To  himself. 

I  '11  bring  him  the  best  'parel  that  I  have, 

Come  on't  what  will.  [Exit  Old  Man  L.  i.  E. 

Glos. 
Sirrah  ;  naked  fellow  ! 

Edgar. 

Poor  Tom 's  a-cold.  —  I  cannot  daub  it  further.    [Aside. 

Glos. 
Come  hither,  fellow. 

Edgar.  [Aside. 

And  yet  I  must. 
Bless  thy  sweet  eyes,  they  bleed.  [  To  Gloster. 

Glos. 
Know'st  thou  the  way  to  Dover  ? 

Edgar. 

Both  stile  and  gate — horse-way  and  foot-path.  Poor 
Tom  hath  been  scared  out  of  his  good  wits;  bless  thee, 
good  man's  son,  from  the  foul  fiend! 


8o 


KING    LEAR. 


Glos. 


Here,  take  this  purse,  thou  whom  the  heaven's  plagues 
Have  humbled  to  all  strokes :  that  I  am  wretched, 
Makes  thee  the  happier.     Dost  thou  know  Dover  ? 

Edgar. 
Ay,  master. 

Glos. 

There  is  a  cliff,  whose  high  and  bending  head 
Looks  fearfully  in  the  confined  deep : 
Bring  me  but  to  the  very  brim  of  it, 
And  I  '11  repair  the  misery  thou  dost  bear, 
With  something  rich  about  me  :  from  that  place 
I  shall  no  leading  need. 

Edgar. 

Give  me  thy  arm! 
Poor  Tom  shall  lead  thee. 

[Exeunt  Gloster  and  Edgar  R.     Enter  Cordelia, 
Physician,  and  soldiers  L. 

Cord. 

Alack!  't  is  he;  why,  he  was  met,  even  now, 

As  mad  as  the  vexed  sea;  singing  aloud; 

Crowned  with  rank  fumiter  and  farrow  weeds, 

With  harlocks,  hemlock,  nettles,  cuckoo  flowers, 

Darnel,  and  all  the  idle  weeds  that  grow 

In  our  sustaining  corn.  —  A  century  send  forth  ; 

Search  every  acre  in  the  high-grown  field, 

And  bring  him  to  our  eye.  [Exit  an  officer  R. 

What  can  man's  wisdom,  [  To  Physician. 

In  the  restoring  his  bereaved  sense? 

He  that  helps  him  take  all  my  outward  worth. 

Phy. 

There  is  means,  madam. 

Our  foster-nurse  of  nature  is  repose, 

The  which  he  lacks;  that  to  provoke  in  him 

Are  many  simples  operative,  whose  power 

Will  close  the  eye  of  anguish. 


KING    LEAR.  8  I 

Cord. 

All  blessed  secrets, 

All  you  unpublished  virtues  of  the  earth, 
Spring  with  my  tears !  be  aidant  and  remediate, 
In  the  good  man's  distress !     Seek,  seek  for  him; 
Lest  his  ungoverned  rage  dissolve  the  life 
That  wants  the  means  to  lead  it.        [Enter  Curan  R.  i.  E. 

Curan. 

News,  madam. 
The  British  powers  are  marching  hitherward. 

Cord. 

'T  is  known  before :  our  preparation  stands 

In  expectation  of  them.  —  O,  dear  father ! 

It  is  thy  business  that  I  go  about, 

Therefore  great  France 

My  mourning  and  important  tears  hath  pitied. 

No  blown  ambition  doth  our  arms  incite, 

But  love,  dear  love,  and  our  aged  father's  right. 

[Exeunt  Cordelia,  Physician,  Curan  and  soldiers 

R.  i.  E.     Enter   Gloster  and  Edgar  L.   u.   E. 

Edgar  is  dressed  in  garments  of  a  peasant. 

Glos. 
When  shall  I  come  to  the  top  of  that  same  hill  ? 

Edgar. 

[Assuming  a  rougher  voice  than  is  natural  to  him. 
You  do  climb  it  now :  look,  how  we  labour. 

Glos. 
Methinks  the  ground  is  even. 

Edgar. 

Horrible  steep ! 
Hark  !     Do  you  hear  the  sea  ? 

Glos. 
No,  truly. 


82  KING    LEAR. 

Edgar. 

Why,  then,  your  other  senses  grow  imperfect, 
By  your  eyes'  anguish. 

Glos. 

So  it  may  be,  indeed. 

Methinks  thy  voice  is  altered ;  and  thou  speakest 
In  better  phrase  and  manner  than  thou  didst. 

Edgar. 

You  are  much  deceived ;  in  nothing  am  I  changed 
But  in  my  garments. 

Glos. 

Methinks  you  are  better  spoken. 

Edgar. 

Come  on,  sir;  here's  the  place;  stand  still. —  How  fearful 

And  dizzy  't  is  to  cast  one's  eyes  so  low ! 

The  crows  and  choughs,  that  wing  the  midway  air, 

Show  scarce  so  gross  as  beetles :  half  way  down 

Hangs  one  that  gathers  samphire ;  dreadful  trade ! 

Methinks  he  seems  no  bigger  than  his  head. 

The  fishermen  that  walk  upon  the  beach 

Appear  like  mice;  and  yon  tall  anchoring  bark, 

Diminished  to  her  cock ;  her  cock,  a  buoy, 

Almost  too  small  for  sight.     The  murmuring  surge, 

That  on  the  unnumbered  idle  pebbles  chafes, 

Cannot  be  heard  so  high.     I  '11  look  no  more ; 

Lest  my  brain  turn,  and  the  deficient  sight 

Topple  down  headlong. 

Glos. 
Set  me  where  you  stand. 

Edgar. 

Give  me  your  hand;  you  are  now  within  a  foot 
Of  th'  extreme  verge :  for  all  beneath  the  moon 
Would  I  not  leap  upright. 


KING   LEAR.  83 

Glos. 

Let  go  my  hand. 

Here,  friend,  is  another  purse ;  in  it  a  jewel 
Well  worth  a  poor  man's  taking ;  fairies  and  gods, 
Prosper  it  with  thee !     Go  thou  further  off; 
Bid  me  farewell,  and  let  me  hear  thee  going. 

Edgar. 
Now  fare  you  well,  good  sir.  [Edgar  retires  up. 

Glos. 
With  all  my  heart. 

Edgar. 

Why  I  do  trifle  thus  with  his  despair, 
Is  done  to  cure  it. 

Glos.  [Kneels. 

O,  you  mighty  gods  ! 

This  world  I  do  renounce,  and  in  your  sights 
Shake  patiently  my  great  affliction  off. 
If  I  could  bear  it  longer,  and  not  fall 
To  quarrel  with  your  great,  opposeless  wills, 
My  loathed  part  of  nature  should  itself 
Burn  to  the  last. 

If  Edgar  live,  O,  bless  him! —  \JRises. 

Now,  fellow,  fare  thee  well.  [  To  Edgar. 

[Is  about  to  leap  forward,  when  Edgar  catches  him. 

Edgar. 

Hold!     Who  comes  here  ? 

[Enter  Lear,  fantastically  dressed  up  with  wild 
flowers. 

Lear. 

No,  they  cannot  touch  me  for  coining; 
I  am  the  king  himself. 

Edgar.  [Aside. 

O,  thou  side-piercing  sight ! 


84  KING    LEAR. 

Lear. 

Nature 's  above  art  in  that  respect. — There  's  your  press- 
money.  That  fellow  handles  his  bow  like  a  crow-keeper : 
draw  me  a  clothier's  yard.  —  Look,  look,  a  mouse.  Peace, 
peace! — This  piece  of  toasted  cheese  will  do  it.  There's 
my  gauntlet;  I  '11  prove  it  on  a  giant.  —  Bring  up  the 
brown-bills  —  O,  well-flown  bird!  —  I'  the  clout,  i'  the 
clout :  hewgh !  —  Give  the  word.  [  To  Edgar. 

Edgar. 
Sweet  marjoram ! 

Lear. 

Pass.  [Edgar  crosses  L. 

Glos.  [R. 

I  know  that  voice. 

Lear.  [Perceiving  Glostcr. 

Ha!  Goneril !  —  with  a  white  beard!  They  flattered 
me  like  a  dog;  and  told  me  I  had  white  hairs  in  my  beard, 
ere  the  black  ones  were  there.  To  say  "  ay,"  and  "  no," 
to  everything  I  said.  — "  Ay  "  and  "  no  "  too  was  no  good 
divinity.  When  the  rain  came  to  wet  me  once,  and  the 
wind  to  make  me  chatter ;  when  the  thunder  would  not 
peace  at  my  bidding ;  there  I  found  'em,  there  I  smelt  'em 
out.  Go  to,  they  are  not  men  of  their  words ;  they  told 
me  I  was  everything  :  't  is  a  lie ;  I  am  not  ague-proof. 

Glos. 

The  trick  of  that  voice  I  do  well  remember ; 
Is  't  not  the  king  ? 

Lear. 

Ay,  every  inch  a  king  ! 
When  I  do  stare, 
See  how  the  subject  quakes. 
I  pardon  that  man's  life : 
What  was  the  cause  ? 
Thou  shalt  not  die. — 
No!    No! 


KING    LEAR.  85 

To  't  luxury,  pell-mell,  for  I  lack  soldiers. 

Fie,  fie,  fie  !     Pah ;  pah  ! 

Give  me  an  ounce  of  civet,  good  apothecary, 

To  sweeten  my  imagination. 

There  's  money  for  thee. 

Glos. 
O,  let  me  kiss  that  hand  ! 

Lear. 

Let  me  wipe  it  first ;  it  smells  of  mortality. 
Glos. 

O,  ruined  piece  of  nature  !     This  great  world 
Should  so  wear  out  to  nought.     Dost  thou  know  me  ? 

Lear. 

I  remember  thine  eyes  well  enough.  Dost  thou  squiny 
at  me?  No,  do  thy  worst,  blind  Cupid;  I'll  not  love. 
Read  thou  this  challenge;  mark  but  the  penning  of  it. 

Glos. 
Were  all  the  letters  suns  I  could  not  see  one. 

Edgar.  [Aside. 

I  would  not  take  this  from  report :  it  is  — 
And  my  heart  breaks  at  it. 

Lear. 
Read. 

Glos. 

What,  with  this  case  of  eyes  ? 

Lear. 

O,  ho !  are  you  there  with  me  ?  No  eyes  in  your 
head,  nor  no  money  in  your  purse  ?  Your  eyes  are  in  a 
heavy  case,  your  purse  in  a  light:  yet,  you  see  how  this 
world  goes. 


86  KING   LEAR. 

Glos. 
I  see  it  feelingly. 

Lear. 

What,  art  mad  ?  A  man  may  see  how  this  world  goes 
with  no  eyes.  Look  with  thine  ears !  See  how  yond' 
justice  rails  at  yond'  simple  thief.  Hark,  in  thine  ear; 
change  places;  and,  handy-dandy,  which  is  the  justice, 
which  the  thief?  Thou  hast  seen  a  farmer's  dog  bark  at  a 
beggar? 

Glos. 
Ay,  sir. 

Lear. 

And  the  creature  run  from  the  cur?  There  thou 
mightst  behold  the  great  image  of  authority:  a  dog's 
obeyed  in  office. 

The  usurer  hangs  the  cozener; 

Through  tattered  clothes  small  vices  do  appear; 

Robes  and  furred  gowns  hide  all.     Plate  sin  with  gold, 

And  the  strong  lance  of  justice  hurtless  breaks; 

Arm  it  in  rags,  a  pigmy's  straw  doth  pierce  it. 

None  does  offend,  none,  I  say,  none ;  I  '11  able  'em : 

Take  that  of  me,  my  friend,  who  have  the  power 

To  seal  the  accuser's  lips.     Get  thee  glass  eyes, 

And,  like  a  scurvy  politician,  seem 

To  see  the  things  thou  dost  not. 

Edgar.  [Aside. 

O,  matter  and  impertinency  mixed ! 
Reason  in  madness! 

Lear. 

If  thou  wilt  weep  my  fortunes,  take  my  eyes. 
I  know  thee  well  enough;  thy  name  is  Gloster. 
Thou  must  be  patient.    We  came  crying  hither. 
Thou  know'st,  the  first  time  that  we  smell  the  air, 
We  wawl  and  cry: — I  will  preach  to  thee;  mark  me. 

Glos. 
Alack,  alack  the  day! 


KING    LEAR.  87 

Lear. 

When  we  are  born,  we  ciy  that  we  are  come 
To  this  great  stage  of  fools ;  — 

[Enter  Curan  with  attendants  L.  u.  E. 

Curan. 
O,  here  he  is ;  lay  hand  upon  him. 

[They  take  Lear  very  gently  by  the  arms. 
Sir,  your  most  dear  daughter 

Lear. 

No  rescue?    What,  a  prisoner?    I  am  even 
The  natural  fool  of  fortune. —  Use  me  well ; 
You  shall  have  ransom.     Let  me  have  surgeons, — 
I  am  cut  to  the  brains. 

Curan. 
You  shall  have  anything. 

Lear. 

No  seconds?     All  myself ! 

I  will  die  bravely,  like  a  smug  bridegroom.     What  ? 

I  will  be  jovial :  come,  come ;  I  am  a  king, 

My  masters,  know  you  that  ? 

Curan.  [R. 

You  are  a  royal  one,  and  we  obey  you. 

[Curan   and  attendants    uncover  and  fall  back. 
Lear  takes  Ctiran's  hat. 

Lear. 

This  is  a  good  block. 
It  were  a  delicate  stratagem,  to  shoe 
A  troop  of  horse  with  felt :  I  '11  put  it  in  proof; 
And  when  I  have  stolen  upon  these  sons-in-law, 
Then,  kill,  kill,  kill,  kill,  kill,  kill ! 

[Exit  Lear,  followed  by  Curan  and  attendants. 

Edgar.  [Aside. 

A  sight  most  pitiful  in  the  meanest  wretch ; 

Past  speaking  of  in  a  king!  —  Thou  hast  one  daughter; 

Who  redeems  nature  from  the  general  curse 

Which  twain  have  brought  her  to. 


88  KING   LEAR. 

Glos. 

You  ever  gentle  gods,  take  my  breath  from  me ; 
Let  not  my  worser  spirit  tempt  me  again 
To  die  before  you  please. 

Edgar. 
Well  pray  you,  father. 

Glos. 

Now,  good  sir,  who  are  you  ? 

Edgar. 

A  most  poor  man,  made  tame  by  fortune's  blows, 
Who,  by  the  art  of  known  and  feeling  sorrows, 
Am  pregnant  to  good  pity.     Give  me  your  hand ; 
I  '11  lead  you  to  some  biding. 

[Edgar  leads  Gloster  L.    Enter  Oswald  L.  I.E. 

Osw. 

A  proclaimed  prize !   Most  happy! 
That  eyeless  head  of  thine  was  first  framed  flesh 
To  raise  my  fortunes. — Thou  old,  unhappy  traitor, 
Briefly  thyself  remember :  the  sword  is  out 

[Draws  sword. 
That  must  destroy  thee. 

Glos.  [To  Oswald. 

Now  let  thy  friendly  hand 

Put  strength  into  it.  [Edgar  opposes  Oswald. 

Osw. 

Wherefore,  bold  peasant, 

Dar'st  thou  support  a  published  traitor  ?     Hence ; 

Lest  that  infection  of  his  fortune  take 

Like  hold  on  thee.     Let  go  his  arm  ! 


KING    LEAR.  89 

Edgar. 
Ch  'ill  not  let  go,  zir,  without  vurther  'casion. 

Osiv. 
Let  go,  slave,  or  thou  diest ! 

Edgar. 

Good  gentleman,  go  your  gate,  and  let  poor  volk  pass. 
And  ch  'ud  ha'  been  zwaggared  out  of  my  life,  't  would 
not  ha'  been  zo  long  as  't  is  by  a  vortnight.  Nay,  come 

[  Oswald  advances. 

not  near  th'  old  man ;  keep  che  vor  'ye,  or  ise  try  whether 
your  costard  or  my  ballow  be  the  harder.  Ch  'ill  be  plain 
with  you. 

Osw. 
Out,  dunghill ! 

Edgar. 

Ch  'ill  pick  your  teeth,  zir;  come ;  no  matter  vor  your 
foins. 

[  They  fight.     Edgar  disarms  Oswald,  and  kills  him. 

Osw. 

Slave,  thou  hast  slain  me :  villain,  take  my  purse ; 
If  ever  thou  wilt  thrive,  bury  my  body ; 
And  give  the  letters,  which  thou  find'st  about  me, 
To  Edmund,  Earl  of  Gloster  :  seek  him  out 
Upon  the  British  party:  —  O,  untimely  death! 

[Oswald  dies. 
Edgar. 

I  know  thee  well — a  serviceable  villain; 
As  duteous  to  the  vices  of  thy  mistress, 
As  badness  would  desire. 

Glos. 
What !  is  he  dead  ? 


90  KING    LEAR. 


Let  's  see  his  pockets  ;  these  letters  that  he  speaks  of 
May  be  my  friends.     He  's  dead  ;  I  am  only  sorry 
He  had  no  other  death's-man.  —  Let  us  see  : 

[  TWkfS  letters  frvm  pockets  of  OswaU. 
Leave,  gentle  wax  ;  and,  manners,  blame  us  not  ; 
To  know  our  enemies'  minds,  we  rip  their  hearts  ; 
Their  paper  is  more  lawful. 

[Keads. 

"  Let  our  reciprocal  vows  be  remembered.  You  have 
many  opportunities  to  cut  him  off:  if  your  will  want  not, 
time  and  place  will  be  fruitfully  offered.  There  is  nothing 
done  if  he  return  the  conqueror  ;  then  I  am  the  prisoner 
—  deliver  me  and  supply  his  place  for  your  labour. 
••Your  —  wife,  so  I  would  say,  — 

"affectionate  sen-ant, 

"  GONERIL." 

[Aside. 

O,  undistinguished  space  of  woman's  will  ! 
A  plot  upon  her  virtuous  husband's  life  ; 
And  the  exchange,  my  brother.  [Drums  at  distance. 

Give  me  your  hand;  [To  Gbster. 

Far  off,  methinks,  I  hear  the  beaten  drum. 
Come  father  ;  I  '11  bestow  you  with  a  friend. 

[Exfunt  L.  2.  K. 


i  A  TENT  IN  THE  FRENCH  CAMP  ;  CUR- 
&cttit.  <     TAINS  ox  TENT.     COUCH  AND  STOOL 
(     WITHIN  TENT. 

[Enter  Cordelia  and  Kent  R.  i.  E. 

Cord. 

O,  thou  good  Kent !     How  shall  I  live  and  work 
To  match  thy  goodness  ?     My  life  wfll  be  too  short. 
And  even-  measure  fail  me. 


KING    LEAR.  91 

Kent. 

To  be  acknowledged,  madam,  is  o'er-paid. 
All  my  reports  go  with  the  modest  truth ; 
Nor  more,  nor  clipped,  but  so. 

Cord. 

Be  better  suited  : 

These  weeds  are  memories  of  those  worser  hours ; 
I  pr'ythee  put  them  off. 

Kent. 

Pardon  me,  dear  madam ; 
Yet  to  be  known  shortens  my  made  intent : 
My  boon,  1  make  it,  that  you  know  me  not, 
Till  time  and  I  think  meet. 

[Enter  Physician  and  attendant,  from  tent. 

Cord. 

Then  be  't  so.  my  good  lord. 

How  does  the  king  ?  [  To  Physician. 

Phy. 
Madam,  sleeps  still.  {Physician  sends  attendant  offi^. 

Cord. 

O,  you  kind  gods, 

Cure  this  great  grief  in  his  abused  nature  ! 
The  untuned  and  jarring  senses,  O,  wind  up, 
Of  this  child-changed  father  ! 

Phy. 

So  please  your  majesty, 
That  we  may  wake  the  king  ?     He  hath  slept  long. 

Cord. 

Be  governed  by  your  knowledge,  and  proceed 
I'  the  sway  of  your  own  will.     Is  he  arrayed? 

Phy. 

Ay,  madam ;  in  the  heaviness  of  sleep 
We  put  fresh  garments  on  him. 


92  KING    LEAR. 

Kent. 

Be  by,  good  madam,  when  we  do  awake  him; 
I  doubt  not  of  his  temperance. 

Cord. 
Very  well.  [Music  pp. 

Phy. 

Please  you  draw  near.  [To  Cordelia. 

Louder  the  music  there.  [Spoken  off. 

[Music  p. 

[Kent  and  Physician  raise  curtains  of  tent,  discov- 
ering Lear.     Kent  R.    Physician  L. 

Cord.  [c. 

O,  my  dear  father !    Restoration  hang 

Thy  medicine  on  my  lips;  and  let  this  kiss 

Repair  those  violent  harms  that  my  two  sisters 

Have  in  thy  reverence  made !  [Kisses  Lear. 

Kent. 
Kind  and  dear  princess ! 

Cord. 

Had  you  not  been  their  father,  these  white  flakes 

Had  challenged  pity  of  them.     Was  this  a  face 

To  be  exposed  against  the  warring  winds  ? 

To  stand  against  the  deep,  dread-bolted  thunder, 

In  the  most  terrible  and  nimble  stroke 

Of  quick  cross-lightning  ?     Mine  enemy's  dog, 

Though  he  had  bit  me,  should  have  stood  that  night 

Against  my  fire :  and  wast  thou  fain,  poor  father, 

To  hovel  thee  with  swine,  and  rogues  forlorn, 

In  short  and  musty  straw  ?     Alack,  alack  ! 

T  is  wonder  that  thy  life  and  wits  at  once 

Had  not  concluded  all.  —  He  wakes;  speak  to  him. 

Phy. 
Madam,  do  you ;  't  is  fittest. 


KING   LEAR.  93 

Cord,       [  To  Lear,  who  awakes. 
How  does  my  royal  lord  ?     How  fares  your  majesty  ? 

Lear. 

You  do  me  wrong  to  take  me  out  o'  the  grave. 
Thou  art  a  soul  in  bliss,  but  I  am  bound 
Upon  a  wheel  of  fire,  that  mine  own  tears 
Do  scald  like  molten  lead. 

Cord. 
Sir,  do  you  know  me  ? 

Lear. 

You  are  a  spirit,  I  know.     When  did  you  die  ? 

Cord. 
Still,  still,  far  wide. 

Phy. 

He's  scarce  awake;  let  him  alone  awhile. 

Lear. 

Where  have  I  been  ?     Where  am  I  ?     Fair  daylight  ? — 
[Kent  and  Physician  assist  Lear  to  rise.     Music 

ceases. 

I  am  mightily  abused.     I  should  e'en  die  with  pity, 
To  see  another  thus.     I  know  not  what  to  say : 
I  will  not  swear  these  are  my  hands :  — 
Would  I  were  assured 
Of  my  condition  ! 

Cord. 

O,  look  upon  me,  sir, 

And  hold  your  hands  in  benediction  o'er  me  :  — 
No,  sir,  you  must  not  kneel. 

[As  Lear  is  about  to  kneel,  Cordelia  and  Physician 
raise  him.  Physician  brings  down  stool  from 
tent.  Lear  sits  on  it  c. 


94  KING    LEAR. 

Lear. 

Pray,  do  not  mock  me ; 
I  am  a  very  foolish,  fond  old  man, 
Four  score  and  upward ;  not  an  hour  more  nor  less ; 
And,  to  deal  plainly, 
I  fear  I  am  not  in  my  perfect  mind. 

[  Cordelia  goes  down  to  R.  corner. 
Methinks  I  should  know  you,  and  know  this  man ; 
Yet  I  am  doubtful ;  for  I  am  mainly  ignorant 
What  place  this  is :  and  all  the  skill  I  have 
Remembers  not  these  garments ;  nor  I  know  not 
Where  I  did  lodge  last  night.     Do  not  laugh  at  me ; 
For,  as  I  am  a  man,  I  think  this  lady 
To  be  my  child  Cordelia. 

[Cordelia  rushes  to  Lear  and  falls  on  her  knees 
in  front  of  him. 

Cord. 
And  so  I  am  !  I  am ! 

Lear. 

Be  your  tears  wet  ?    Yes  'faith.     I  pray,  weep  not ; 
If  you  have  poison  for  me  I  will  drink  it. 
I  know  you  do  not  love  me ;  for  your  sisters 
Have,  as  I  do  remember,  done  me  wrong. 
You  have  some  cause ;  they  have  not. 

Cord. 
No  cause,  no  cause. 

Lear. 
Am  I  in  France  ? 

Kent. 
In  your  own  kingdom,  sir. 

Lear. 
Do  not  abuse  me. 


KING    LEAR.  95 

Phy. 

Be  comforted,  good  madam;  the  great  rage, 
You  see,  is  cured  in  him;  trouble  him  no  more, 
Till  further  settling. 

Lear. 

You  must  bear  with  me  : 

Pray  you,  now  forget  and  forgive  :  [Music pp. 

I  am  old  and  foolish.     Forget  and  forgive  .' 
Forget  and  forgive  !  forget  and  forgive  ! 

SLOW  CURTAIN. 


3tct  f  ifti). 

AN  ENCAMPMENT.    FLOURISH  AT  RISE  OF 
ft         g.          \      CURTAIN.    ALBANY  AND  FORCES,  AND 
'      EDGAR,   DISGUISED,  ARE  DISCOVERED. 
EDGAR  AND  ALBANY  ADVANCE. 

Edgar. 

If  e'er  your  grace  had  speech  with  man  so  poor, 

Hear  me  one  word.     Ope  this  letter. 

Wretched  though  I  seem, 

I  can  produce  a  champion  that  will  prove 

What  is  avouched  there.     Fortune  love  you  !       [  Going  R. 

Alb. 
Stay  till  I  have  read  the  letter. 

Edgar. 

I  was  forbid  it. 

When  rime  shall  serve,  let  but  the  herald  cry 
And  I  '11  appear  again.  [Exit  Edgar  R. 

Alb. 

Why,  fare  thee  well.     I  will  o'erlook  thy  paper. 

[Exit  Albany  L.  u.  E.     Enter  Edmund  L.  2.  E. 

Edtn. 

To  both  these  sisters  have  I  sworn  my  love ; 

Each  jealous  of  the  other,  as  the  stung 

Are  of  the  adder.     Which  of  them  shall  I  take  ? 

Both  ?  one  ?  or  neither  ?     Neither, 

If  both  remain  alive ;  to  take  the  widow, 

Exasperates,  makes  mad  her  sister  Goneril ; 

And  hardly  shall  1  carry  out  my  side, 


KING    LEAR.  97 

Her  husband  being  alive.     Now,  the  battle  done, 
Let  her  who  would  be  rid  of  him  devise 
His  speedy  taking  off.     As  for  the  mercy 
Which  he  intends  to  Lear  and  to  Cordelia, 
They  shall  never  see  his  pardon ;  for  my  state 
Stands  on  me  to  defend,  not  to  debate. 

[Enter  Albany. 

Alb. 

Sir,  you  have  shown  to-day  your  valiant  strain, 
And  fortune  led  you  well :  you  have  the  captives 
Who  were  the  opposites  of  this  day's  strife. 
We  do  require  them  of  you,  so  to  use  them, 
As  we  shall  find  their  merits,  and  our  safety 
May  equally  determine. 

Edm. 

Sir,  I  thought  it  fit 

To  send  the  old  and  miserable  king 

To  some  retention  and  appointed  guard: 

With  him  I  sent  the  queen; 

My  reason  all  the  same;  and  they  are  ready, 

To-morrow,  or  at  further  space,  to  appear 

Where  you  shall  hold  your  session. 

The  question  of  Cordelia  and  her  father 

Requires  a  fitter  place. 

Alb. 

Sir,  by  your  patience, 

I  hold  you  but  a  subject  of  this  war, 

Not  as  a  brother.     I  arrest  thee  on  capital  treason. 

Thou  art  armed,  Gloster.    Let  the  trumpet  sound : 

If  none  appear,  to  prove  upon  thy  person, 

Thy  heinous,  manifest,  and  many  treasons, 

There  is  my  pledge. 

[  Throws  down  glove. 
I  '11  prove  it  on  thy  heart, 
Ere  I  taste  bread,  thou  art  in  nothing  less 
Than  I  have  here  proclaimed  thee. 


9°  KING   LEAR. 

Edm. 
There 's  ray  exchange ; 

[  Throws  down  glove. 
What  in  the  world  he  is 
That  names  me  traitor,  villain-like  he  lies. 
Call  by  thy  trumpet :  he  that  dares  approach, 
On  him,  on  you,  who  not  ?     I  will  maintain 
My  truth  and  honour  firmly. 

Alb. 

Trust  to  thy  single  virtue ;  for  thy  soldiers, 
All  levied  in  my  name,  have  in  my  name 
Took  their  discharge. 

Come  hither,  herald, — let  the  trumpet  sound, 
And  read  out  this. 

Herald. 

Sound  trumpet !  f  Trumpet  sounds. 

Herald.  {Reads. 

"  If  any  man  of  quality  or  degree,  within  the  lists  of  the 
army,  will  maintain  upon  Edmund,  supposed  Earl  of 
Gloster,  that  he  is  a  manifold  traitor,  let  him  appear  at  the 
third  sound  of  the  trumpet :  he  is  bold  in  his  defence  ! " 

Edm. 
Sound !  [  Trumpet  sounds. 

Herald. 
Again  !  [  Trumpet  sounds. 

Herald. 

Again !  \Trumpet  sounds. 

\Trumpet   answers   within.      Flourish.      Edgar 
enters,  armed,  R.  i.  E. 

Alb.  [To  Herald. 

Ask  him  his  purpose,  why  he  appears 
Upon  this  call  of  the  trumpet  ? 


KING    LEAR.  99 

Herald. 

What  are  you  ? 

Your  name,  your  quality,  and  why  you  answer 
This  present  summons  ?  [Herald  retires  up. 

Edgar. 

Know,  my  name  is  lost ; 

By  treason's  tooth  bare-gnawn  and  canker-bit; 

Yet  am  I  noble  as  the  adversary 

I  come  to  cope  withal. 

Alb. 
Which  is  that  adversary  ? 

Edgar. 
What 's  he  that  speaks  for  Edmund,  Earl  of  Gloster  ? 

Edm. 
Himself:  what  say'st  thou  to  him  ? 

Edgar. 

Draw  thy  sword; 

That,  if  my  speech  offend  a  noble  heart, 

Thy  arm  may  do  thee  justice :  here  is  mine. 

[Displays  sword. 

Behold,  it  is  my  privilege,  the  privilege  of  mine  honours, 
My  oath  and  my  profession  :  I  protest, 
Maugre  thy  strength,  place,  youth,  and  eminence, 
Despite  thy  victor  sword  and  fire-new  fortune, 
Thy  valour  and  thy  heart,  thou  art  a  traitor ; 
False  to  thy  gods,  thy  brother,  and  thy  father ; 
Conspirant  'gainst  this  high  illustrious  prince ; 
And,  from  the  extremest  upward  of  thy  head, 
To  the  descent  and  dust  below  thy  feet, 
A  most  toad-spotted  traitor.     Say  thou  "  No," 
This  sword,  this  arm,  and  my  best  spirits  are  bent 
To  prove  upon  thy  heart,  whereto  I  speak, 
Thou  liest ! 


100  KING    LEAR. 

Edm. 

In  wisdom,  I  should  ask  thy  name; 
But,  since  thy  outside  looks  so  fair  and  warlike, 
And  that  thy  tongue  some  'say  of  breeding  breathes, 
What  safe  and  nicely  1  might  well  delay, 
By  rule  of  knighthood,  I  disdain  and  spurn. 
Back  do  I  toss  these  treasons  to  thy  head ; 
With  the  hell-hated  lie  o'erwhelm  thy  heart ; 
Which,  for  they  yet  glance  by,  and  scarcely  bruise, 
This  sword  of  mine  shall  give  them  instant  way 
Where  they  shall  rest  forever. — Trumpets  speak! 

[flourish.  Edgar  and  Edmund  fight.  Edmund 
falls  R.,  and  is  caught  and  supported  by  two 
officers. 

Edm. 

What  you  have  charged  me  with,  that  have  I  done ; 
And  more,  much  more;  the  time  will  bring  it  out: 
'T  is  past,  and  so  am  I :  but  what  art  thou, 
That  hast  this  fortune  on  me?     If  thou  'rt  noble, 
I  do  forgive  thee. 

Edgar. 

Let's  exchange  charity. 

I  am  no  less  in  blood  than  thou  art,  Edmund : 
My  name  is  Edgar,  and  thy  father's  son. 
The  gods  are  just,  and  of  our  pleasant  vices 
Make  instruments  to  plague  us. 

Edm. 

Thou  hast  spoken  right ;  't  is  true ; 

The  wheel  is  come  full  circle;  I  am  here; 

But,  O,  I  pant  for  life. 

Some  good  I  mean  to  do, 

Despite  of  mine  own  nature.     Quickly  send  — 

Be  brief  in  it  —  to  the  castle;  for  my  writ 

Is  on  the  life  of  Lear  and  on  Cordelia. 

Edgar. 

Who  lias  the  office  ?     Send 
Thy  token  of  reprieve ! 


KING   LEAR.  IOI 

Edm. 

Take  my  sword; 
Give  it  the  captain. 

[Edgar  picks  up  sword  and  goes  out. 

Edm.  [To  Albany. 

He  hath  commission  from  thy  wife  and  me 
To  hang  Cordelia,  in  the  prison,  and 
To  lay  the  blame  upon  her  own  despair, 
That  she  fordid  herself. 

Alb. 

The  gods  defend  her!     Bear  him  hence. 

[Edmund  is  borne  off  R.  Albany  in  R.  corner. 
Enter  Lear,  with  Cordelia,  dead,  in  his  arms. 
Edgar,  Officer,  Curan,  and  Kent  follow  him. 

Lear. 

Howl,  howl,  howl,  howl !  —  O  !  you  are  men  of  stone ! 

Had  I  your  tongues  and  eyes,  I  'd  use  them  so 

That  heaven's  vault  should  crack:  —  she's  gone  forever! 

I  know  when  one  is  dead,  and  when  one  lives ; 

She's  dead  as  earth  : — lend  me  a  looking-glass; 

If  that  her  breath  will  mist  or  stain  the  stone, 

Why,  then  she  lives. 

Kent. 

Is  this  the  promised  end  ? 

Edgar. 
Or  image  of  that  horror  ? 

Alb. 
Fall  and  cease. 

Lear. 

[Takes  feather  from  Kenfs  hat  and  holds  it  to 

Cordelia's  lips. 

This  feather  stirs  :  she  lives! 
If  it  be  so, 

It  is  a  chance  which  does  redeem  all  sorrows 
That  ever  I  have  felt. 


IO2  KING   LEAR. 

Kent.  [Kneeling. 

O,  my  good  master! 

Lear. 
Pr'ythee  away. 

Edgar. 

'T  is  noble  Kent,  your  friend. 

Lear. 

A  plague  upon  you,  murderers,  traitors,  all ! 

I  might  have  saved  her :  now,  she 's  gone  forever ! 

Cordelia,  Cordelia,  stay  a  little !  ha ! 

What  is 't  thou  say'st  ?     Her  voice  was  ever  soft, 

Gentle  and  low  —  an  excellent  thing  in  woman. — 

I  killed  the  slave  that  was  a-hanging  thee. 

Curan.  [To  alL 

Tis  true,  my  lords,  he  did. 

Lear. 

Did  I  not,  fellow? 

I  have  seen  the  day  with  my  good  biting  faulchion 
I  would  have  made  them  skip :  I  am  old  now, 
And  these  same  crosses  spoil  me. —  Who  are  you  ? 

[To  Kent. 
Mine  eyes  are  not  of  the  best : —  I  '11  tell  you  straight. 

Kent. 

If  fortune  brag  of  two  she  loved  and  hated, 
One  of  them  we  behold. 

Lear. 
This  is  a  dull  sight.     Are  you  not  Kent  ? 

Kent. 
The  same. 
Your  servant  Kent :  where  is  your  servant  Caius  ? 

Lear. 

He's  a  good  fellow,  I  can  tell  you  that. 

He'll  strike,  and  quickly  too:  he's  dead  and  rotten. 


KING   LEAR,  103 

Kent. 
No,  my  good  lord,  I  am  the  very  man- 

Lear. 

I  '11  see  that  straight. 

Kent. 

That  from  your  first  of  difference  and  decay 
Have  followed  your  sad  steps. 

Lear. 
You  are  welcome  hither. 

Kent. 

Nor  no  man  else ;  all 's  cheerless,  dark  and  deadly. 
Your  eldest  daughters  have  fordone  themselves 
And  desperately  are  dead. 

Lear. 
Ay,  so  I  think. 

Alb. 

He  knows  not  what  he  says,  and  vain  it  is, 
That  we  present  us  to  him. 

Edgar. 
Very  bootless.     O  !  see  !  see  ! 

Lear. 

And  my  poor  fool  is  hanged.     No,  no,  no  life  : 

Why  should  a  dog,  a  horse,  a  rat  have  life, 

And  thou  no  breath  at  all  ?     Thou  'It  come  no  more, 

Never,  never,  never,  never,  never !  — 

Pray  you,  undo  this  button  :  thank  you,  sir. — 

Do  you  see  this  ?     Look  on  her, — look,  her  lips. — 

Look  there  !     Look  there  ! 


IO4  KING   LEAR. 

Kent, 

Break  heart ;  I  pray  thee,  break  ! 

V  Lear  dies. 

Edgar. 
My  lord  !     My  lord ! 

Kent. 
Vex  not  his  ghost ! 

[Music  very  soft  and  mournful,  to  end  of  the  scene. 
O,  let  him  pass ;  he  hates  him, 
That  would  upon  the  rack  of  this  tough  world 
Stretch  him  out  longer. 

Edgar. 
He  is  gone  indeed. 

SLOW  CURTAIN. 


KING    LEAR. 

APPENDIX. 

I. — THE  CHARACTER  OF  KING  LEAR. 

THE  elements  and  attributes  of  Lear  are  not  obscurely  furnished. 
He  comes  before  us,  at  the  first,  an  old  man,  but  not  decrepit  — 
a  man  who  is  beginning  to  break,  but  who  is  not  yet  broken. 
His  aspect  is  massive,  majestic  and  venerable.  He  still  wears  dominion 
in  his  countenance.  He  is  exceedingly  tender  in  heart  and  magnani- 
mous in  disposition.  His  age  is  that  of  simplicity  and  goodness ;  but 
his  mind  is  blindly  suspicious  of  its  own  decadence ;  and  he  will  prove 
exacting,  irrational,  fiery,  capricious  and  unpleasant,  after  the  fashion 
of  choleric  and  selfish  senility.  In  the  fibre  of  his  character,  however, 
—  in  his  essential  personality  and  interior  spirit, —  he  is,  above  all  things 
else,  large,  spacious,  and  noble.  He  is  not  a  common  man  grown 
old.  He  must,  all  his  life,  have  carried  the  stamp  and  the  magnetic 
allurement  and  domination  of  a  great  and  charming  nature.  He  must 
have  captured  hearts  and  ruled  minds  by  something  beautiful  and  strong 
in  his  fate.  He  does  not  hold  royalty  by  lineage  or  by  human  law  alone, 
but  by  divine  endowment.  He  is  born  to  the  purple.  He  is  a  mountain 
in  the  midst  of  a  plain  ;  and  the  crumbling  of  his  mind  and  fortunes  is 
like  the  fall  of  the  avalanche.  Vitalized  with  this  immaculate  and 
charming  excellence,  endowed  with  this  innate  majesty,  and  invested 
with  this  personal  grandeur,  he  becomes  the  most  colossal  figure  that 
ever  was  reared  in  the  Pantheon  of  the  human  imagination  ;  and  his 
experience,  his  suffering,  his  frenzy,  his  senile  insanity,  and  the 
whirlwind  of  agony  in  which  he  dies,  become  tremendous  and  over- 
whelming. It  is  not  old  Brabantio,  or  old  Capulet,  or  even  old  Shylock, 
who  goes  mad,  under  the  strokes  of  unkindness,  the  wear  of  age,  the 
ravages  of  tempest,  and  the  human  woes  and  spiritual  perplexities  of 
life :  it  is  old  Lear  :  and  when  this  awful  presence  totters,  with  streaming 
white  hair  and  blazing  eye-balls,  across  the  thunder-riven  heath,  under 
the  night  and  through  the  storm,  he  breaks  our  hearts,  not  alone  with 


IO6  APPENDIX. 

afflicting  sense  of  the  torment  into  which  he  has  fallen,  but  of  the  stately 
yet  lovable  nobility  from  which  he  fell.  King  Lear  is  an  august  and 
splendid  personality,  and  he  bears  the  authentic  sceptre  of  sorrow.  We 
see  him  torn  from  all  moorings  and  driven  out  upon  the  gale-swept 
ocean-wastes  of  misery ;  but  it  is  less  for  what  he  suffers  than  for  what 
he  is,  that  we  pity,  and  love,  and  reverence,  and  deplore  him.  The 
highest  and  best  elements  of  our  human  nature  are  felt  to  be  crystallized 
and  combined  in  this  woeful,  terrific  image  of  shattered  royalty  ;  and  so 
his  misery  comes  home  to  us  with  a  keen  personal  force.  There  are 
many  denotements  of  this  imperial  fascination,  which  is  the  pervading 
and  characteristic  quality  of  Lear,  and  which  has  enthroned  him  in  the 
love  of  all  the  world.  It  is  the  soul  of  the  character.  It  links  to  the 
ruined  monarch  all  the  virtues  that  surround  his  time  and  person.  It 
holds  the  heart-strings  of  the  celestial  Cordelia.  It  holds  the  devotion 
of  the  wise  and  honest  Kent.  Nothing,  indeed,  can  be  more  significant 
of  what  Lear  is  than  the  passionate  fealty  of  this  follower,  who  "from 
the  first  of  difference  and  decay"  has  attended  his  steps,  and  who  will 
not  be  left  by  him,  even  at  the  brink  of  the  grave. 

"  I  have  a  journey,  sir,  shortly  to  go: 
Mv  master  calls  me  —  I  must  not  say  no." 

W.  W. 

II.— ORIGIN,  BASIS,  AND  DATE  OF  KING  LEAR. 
The  story  of  Lear  and  his  daughters  was  found  by  Shakespeare  in 
Holinshed,  and  he  may  have  taken  a  few  hints  from  an  old  play,  "The 
True  Chronicle  Historic  of  King  Leir."  In  both  Holinshed's  version 
and  that  of  the  "True  Chronicle"  the  army  of  Lear  and  his  French 
allies  is  victorious ;  Lear  is  re-instated  in  his  kingdom  ;  but  Holinshed 
relates  how,  after  Lear's  death,  her  sisters'  sons  warred  against  Cordelia 
and  took  her  prisoner,  when,  "  being  a  woman  of  a  manly  courage,  and 
despairing  to  recover  liberty,"  she  slew  herself.  The  story  is  also  told 
by  Higgins  in  the  "Mirror  for  Magistrates;"  by  Spenser  ('-Faerie 
Queene,"  II.,  x.  27-32),  from  whom  Shakespeare  adopted  the  form  of 
the  name,  "  Cordelia;"  and  in  a  ballad  (printed  in  Percy's  "Reliques") 
probably  later  in  date  than  Shakespeare's  play.  With  the  story  of  Lear 
Shakespeare  connects  that  of  Gloster  and  his  two  sons.  An  episode  in 
Sir  Philip  Sidney's  "Arcadia"  supplied  characters  and  incidents  for 
this  portion  of  the  play, —  Sidney's  blind  king  of  Paphlagonia  cor- 
responding to  the  Gloster  of  Shakespeare.  But  here,  too,  the  story  had, 
in  the  dramatist's  original,  a  happy  ending :  the  Paphlagonian  king  is 
restored  to  his  throne  and  the  brothers  are  reconciled. 


APPENDIX.  IO7 

The  date  of  Shakespeare  s  play  is  probably  1605  or  1606.  It  was 
entered  on  the  Stationer's  register,  November  26th,  1607,  and  the  entry 
states  that  it  had  been  acted  "upon  St.  Stephen's  day,  at  Christmas 
last,"  i.  e.,  December  26th,  1606.  The  play  was  printed,  in  quarto,  in 
1608.  "An  upward  limit  of  date  is  supplied  by  the  publication  of 
Harsnet's  'Declaration  of  Popish  Impostures,'  1603,  to  which  Shakes- 
peare was  indebted  for  the  names  of  many  of  the  devils  in  Edgar's 
speeches."  It  has  been  suggested  that  Gloster's  mention  of  "  late  eclipses 
of  the  sun  and  moon"  (Act  I.,  Scene  ii.  L.  112)  refers  to  the  great 
eclipse  of  the  sun,  October,  1605,  preceded,  within  a  month,  by  an 
eclipse  of  the  moon,  and  that  the  words  which  follow  shortly  after  the 
mention  of  eclipse — "machinations,  hollowness,  treachery,  and  all 
ruinous  disorders  follow  us  disquietly  to  our  graves  " — had  special  point 
if  delivered  on  the  stage  while  the  Gunpowder  Plot,  of  November  sth, 
1605,  was  still  fresh  in  men's  minds.  *  *  *  The  text  of  the  quarto 
differs  considerably  from  that  of  the  folio  ;  but  the  opinion  that  the  later 
text — that  of  the  folio  —  exhibits  a  revision  of  his  own  work  by  Shakes- 
peare is  not  supported  by  sufficient  evidence.  "  The  folio  was  printed 
from  an  independent  manuscript,  and  its  text  is,  on  the  whole,  much 
superior  to  that  of  the  quartos.  Each,  however,  supplies  passages  that 
are  wanting  in  the  other."  Scene  iii.  of  Act  IV.  is  not  found  in  the 
folio.  EDWARD  DOWDEN. 

III.— THE  ORIGINAL  STORY  OF  KING  LEAR. 

"  Leir,  the  son  of  Baldud,  was  admitted  ruler  over  the  Bri tains  in  the 
year  of  the  world  3105.  At  what  time  Joas  reigned  as  yet  in  Juda. 
This  Leir  was  a  prince  of  noble  demeanour,  governing  his  land  and  sub- 
jects in  great  wealth.  He  made  the  town  of  Carleir,  now  called  Leicester, 
which  standeth  upon  the  river  Dore.  It  is  writ  that  he  had,  by  his  wife, 
three  daughters,  without  other  issue,  whose  names  were  Gonorilla, 
Regan,  and  Cordilla,  which  daughters  he  greatly  loved,  but  especially 
the  youngest,  Cordilla,  far  above  the  two  elder. 

1 '  When  this  Leir  had  come  to  great  years,  and  began  to  wear  un- 
wieldy through  age,  he  thought  to  understand  the  affections  of  his 
daughters  towards  him,  and  prefer  her  whom  he  best  loved  to  the  suc- 
cession of  the  kingdom  ;  therefore,  he  first  asked  Gonorilla,  the  eldest, 
how  well  she  loved  him,  the  which,  calling  her  gods  to  record,  protested 
that  she  loved  him  more  than  her  own  life,  which  by  right  and  reason 
should  be  most  dear  unto  her  ;  with  which  answer  the  father,  being  well 
pleased,  turned  to  the  second,  and  demanded  of  her  how  well  she  loved 
him  ;  which  answered  (confirming  her  sayings  with  oaths)  that  she  loved 


108  APPENDIX. 

him  more  than  tongue  can  express,  and  far  above  all  other  creatures  in 
the  world. 

"  Then  called  he  his  youngest  daughter,  Cordilla,  before  him,  and 
asked  of  her  what  account  she  made  of  him  ;  unto  whom  she  made  this 
answer  as  followeth  :  '  Knowing  the  great  love  and  fatherly  zeal  you  have 
always  borne  towards  me  (for  the  which,  that  I  may  not  answer  you  other- 
wise than  I  think,  and  as  my  conscience  leadeth  me),  I  protest  to  you 
that  I  have  always  loved  you,  and  shall  continually,  while  I  live,  love  you 
as  my  natural  father ;  and  if  you  would  more  understand  of  the  love 
that  I  bear  you,  ascertain  yourself,  that  so  much  as  you  have,  so  much 
you  are  worth,  and  so  much  I  love  you,  and  no  more.' 

"The  father,  nothing  content  with  this  answer,  married  the  two  eldest 
daughters,  the  one  unto  the  Duke  of  Cornwall,  named  Henninus,  and 
the  other  unto  the  Duke  of  Albania,  called  Maglanus  ;  and  betwixt 
them,  after  his  death,  he  willed  and  ordained  his  land  should  be  divided, 
and  the  one-half  thereof  should  be  immediately  assigned  unto  them  in 
hand ;  but  for  the  third  daughter,  Cordilla,  he  reserved  nothing. 

"Yet  it  fortuned  that  one  of  the  princes  of  Gallia  (which  now  is 
called  France),  whose  name  was  Aganippus,  hearing  of  the  beauty, 
womanhood,  and  good  conditions  of  the  said  Cordilla,  desired  to  have 
her  in  marriage,  and  sent  over  to  her  father,  requiring  that  he  might  have 
her  to  wife ;  to  whom  answer  was  made,  that  he  might  have  his  daugh- 
ter, but  for  any  dowry  he  could  have  none,  for  all  was  promised  and 
assured  to  her  other  sisters  already. 

"  Aganippus,  notwithstanding  this  answer  of  denial  to  receive  anything 
by  way  of  dower  with  Cordilla,  took  her  to  wife,  only  moved  thereto  (I 
say)  for  respect  of  her  person  and  amiable  virtues.  This  Aganippus 
was  one  of  the  twelve  kings  that  ruled  Gallia  in  those  days,  as  in  the 
British  history  it  is  recorded.  But  to  proceed  :  after  that  Leir  was  fallen 
into  age,  the  two  dukes  that  had  married  his  two  eldest  daughters,  think- 
ing it  long  ere  the  government  of  the  land  did  come  to  their  hands,  arose 
against  him  in  armour,  and  reft  from  him  the  governance  of  the  land, 
upon  conditions  to  be  continued  for  term  of  life  ;  by  the  which  he  was 
put  to  his  portion  ;  that  is,  to  live  after  a  rate  assigned  to  him  for  the 
maintainance  of  his  estate,  which  in  process  of  time  was  diminished,  as 
well  by  Maglanus  as  by  Henninus. 

"  But  the  greatest  grief  that  Leir  took  was  to  see  the  unkindnessof  his 
daughters,  who  seemed  to  think  that  all  was  too  much  which  their  father 
had,  the  same  being  never  so  little  ;  in  so  much  that,  going  from  one  to 
the  other,  he  was  brought  to  that  misery  that  they  would  allow  him  only 
one  servant  to  wait  upon  him.  In  the  end,  such  was  the  unkindness,  or. 


APPENDIX. 


109 


as  I  may  say,  the  unnaturalness,  which  he  found  in  his  two  daughters, 
notwithstanding  their  fair  and  pleasant  words  uttered  in  time  past,  that, 
being  constrained  of  necessity,  he  fled  the  land,  and  sailed  into  Gallia, 
there  to  seek  some  comfort  of  his  youngest  daughter,  Cordilla,  whom 
before  he  hated. 

' '  The  lady  Cordilla,  hearing  he  was  arrived,  in  poor  estate,  she  first  sent 
to  him  privately  a  sum  of  money,  to  apparel  himself  withal,  and  to  retain 
a  certain  number  of  servants,  that  might  attend  upon  him  in  honourable 
wise,  as  apperteyned  to  the  estate  which  he  had  borne.  And  then,  so 
accompanyed,  she  appointed  him  to  come  to  the  court,  which  he  did,  and 
was  so  joyfully,  honourably  and  lovingly  received,  both  by  his  son-in- 
law,  Aganippus,  and  also  by  his  daughter  Cordilla,  that  his  heart  was 
greatly  comforted  ;  for  he  was  no  less  honoured  than  if  he  had  been  king 
of  the  whole  country  himself.  Also,  after  that  he  had  informed  his  son- 
in-law  and  his  daughter  in  what  sort  he  had  been  used  by  his  other 
daughters,  Aganippus  caused  a  mighty  army  to  be  put  in  readiness,  and 
likewise  a  great  navy  of  ships  to  be  rigged,  to  pass  over  into  Britain, 
with  Leir,  his  father-in-law,  to  see  him  again  restored  to  his  kingdom. 

"  It  was  accorded  that  Cordilla  should  also  go  with  him  to  take  posses- 
sion of  the  land,  the  which  he  promised  to  leave  unto  her,  as  his  rightful 
inheritor  after  his  decease,  notwithstanding  any  former  grants  made  unto 
her  sisters,  or  unto  their  husbands,  in  any  manner  of  wise.  Hereupon, 
when  this  army  and  navy  of  ships  were  ready,  Leir  and  his  daughter 
Cordilla,  with  her  husband,  took  the  sea,  and  arriving  in  Britain  fought 
with  their  enemies,  and  discomfited  them  in  battle,  in  the  which  Mag- 
lanus  and  Henninus  were  slain,  and  then  was  Leir  restored  to  his  king- 
dom, which  he  ruled  after  this  by  the  space  of  two  years,  and  then  died, 
forty  years  after  he  first  began  to  reign.  His  body  was  buried  at  Leices- 
ter, in  a  vault  under  the  channel  of  the  river  Dore,  beneath  the  town." 

HOLINSHED'S  CHRONICLE. 

IV. — THE  IDEA  AND  SUBSTANCE  OF  KING  LEAR. 

"  The  modern  practice  of  blending  comedy  with  tragedy,  though  liable 
to  great  abuse  in  point  of  practice,  is  undoubtedly  an  extension  of  the 
dramatic  circle;  but  the  comedy  should  be,  as  in  'King  Lear,'  uni- 
versal, ideal,  and  sublime.  It  is,  perhaps,  the  intervention  of  this  prin- 
ciple which  determines  the  balance  in  favour  of  '  King  Lear '  against  the 
'  CEdipus  Tyrannus,'  or  the  '  Agamemnon,'  or,  if  you  will,  the  Trilogies 
with  which  they  are  connected ;  unless  the  intense  power  of  the  choral 
poetry,  especially  that  of  the  latter,  should  be  considered  as  restoring  the 


1 10  APPENDIX. 

equilibrium.  '  King  Lear,'  if  it  can  sustain  that  comparison,  may  be 
judged  to  be  the  most  perfect  specimen  of  the  dramatic  art  existing  in  the 
world."  SHELLEY. 


"  We  must  never  forget  that  unity,  in  Shakespeare's  view,  consists  in 
one  dominant  idea,  which,  reproducing  itself  under  various  forms, 
incessantly  produces,  continues,  and  redoubles  the  same  impression. 
Thus,  as  in  'Macbeth,'  the  poet  displays  man  in  conflict  with  the 
passions  of  crime,  so  in  '  King  Lear '  he  depicts  him  in  conflict  with 
misfortune,  the  action  of  which  is  modified  according  to  the  different 
characters  of  the  individuals  who  experience  it."  GuiZOT. 


"  The  artful  involution  of  distinct  interests,  the  striking  opposition  of 
contrary  characters,  the  sudden  changes  of  fortune,  and  the  quick 
succession  of  events,  fill  the  mind  with  a  perpetual  tumult  of  indignation, 
pity,  and  hope.  There  is  no  scene  which  does  not  contribute  to  the 
aggravation  of  the  distress  or  conduct  of  the  action  ;  and  scarce  a  line 
which  does  not  conduce  to  the  progress  of  the  scene." 

DR.  JOHNSON. 

"  The  deeper  our  study  of  Shakespeare  the  more  we  are  impressed 
with  the  extent  to  which  his  pathos  is  independent  of  condition  and 
common  to  humanity:  not  independent  of  condition,  in  reference  to  his 
dramatic  purpose  and  effect ;  but  independent  of  condition,  in  reference 
to  the  essence  of  the  suffering.  If  Lear  had  never  been  a  king,  the 
man,  without  a  shred  of  royal  robes,  is  all-sufficient  to  account  for  the 
madness  of  the  father."  HENRY  GILES. 

"Lear  combines  length  with  rapidity  —  like  the  hurricane  and  the 
whirlpool,  absorbing  while  it  advances.  It  begins  as  a  stormy  day  m 
summer,  with  brightness  ;  but  that  brightness  is  lurid,  and  anticipates 
the  tempest.  It  was  not  without  forethought,  nor  is  it  without  its  due 
significance,  that  the  division  of  Lear's  kingdom  is,  in  the  first  lines 
of  the  play,  stated  as  a  thing  already  determined,  in  all  its  particulars, 
previously  to  the  trial  of  professions  as  the  relative  rewards  of  which  the 
daughters  were  to  be  made  to  consider  their  several  portions.  The 
strange,  yet  by  no  means  unnatural,  mixture,  of  selfishness,  sensibility, 
and  habit  of  feeling  derived  from  and  fostered  by  the  particular  rank  and 
usages  of  the  individual ;  the  intense  desire  of  being  intensely  beloved — 


APPENDIX.  Ill 

selfish  and  yet  characteristic  of  the  selfishness  of  a  loving  and  kindly 
nature  alone  ;  the  self-supportless  leaning,  for  all  pleasure,  on  another's 
breast ;  the  craving  after  sympathy  as  with  a  prodigal  disinterested- 
ness, frustrated  by  its  own  ostentation  and  the  mode  and  texture  of  its 
claims  ;  the  anxiety,  the  distrust,  the  jealousy,  which  more  or  less  accom- 
pany all  selfish  affections,  and  are  amongst  the  surest  contradistinctions  of 
mere  fondness  from  pure  love,  and  which  originate  Lear's  eager  wish  to 
enjoy  his  daughters'  violent  professions,  whilst  the  inveterate  habits  of 
sovereignty  convert  the  wish  into  claim  and  positive  right,  and  an  incom- 
pliance with  it  into  crime  and  treason  ; — these  facts,  these  passions, 
these  moral  verities,  on  which  the  whole  tragedy  is  founded,  are  all  pre- 
pared for,  and  will,  to  the  retrospect,  be  implied  in  the  first  four  or  five 
lines  of  the  play.  They  let  us  know  that  the  trial  is  but  a  trick,  and  that 
the  grossness  of  the  old  king's  rage  is  in  part  the  natural  result  of  a 
silly  trick  suddenly  and  most  unexpectedly  baffled  and  disappointed." 

COLERIDGE. 

"  Good  and  evil,  in  this  play,  are  clearly  severed  from  one  another — 
more  so  than  in  '  Macbeth  '  or  in  '  Othello ' —  and,  at  the  last,  goodness, 
it  we  judge  merely  by  external  fortune,  would  seem  to  be,  if  not  defeated, 
at  least  not  triumphant.  Shakespeare  has  dared,  while  paying  little 
regard  to  mere  historical  verisimilitude,  to  represent  the  most  solemn 
and  awful  mysteries  of  life  as  they  actually  are,  without  attempting  to 
offer  a  ready-made  explanation  of  them.  Cordelia  dies  strangled  in 
prison  ;  yet  we  know  that  her  devotion  of  love  was  not  mis-spent.  Lear 
expires  in  an  agony  of  grief;  but  he  has  been  delivered  from  his  pride 
and  passionate  wilfulness  ;  he  has  found  that  instead  of  being  a  master, 
at  whose  nod  all  things  must  bow,  he  is  weak  and  helpless,  a  sport  even 
of  the  wind  and  the  rain  ;  his  ignorance  of  true  love,  and  pleasure  in  false 
professions  of  love,  have  given  place  to  an  agonized  clinging  to  the  love 
which  is  real,  deep,  and  tranquil  because  of  its  fullness.  Lear  is  the 
greatest  sufferer  in  Shakespeare's  plays.  Though  so  old,  he  has  strength 
which  makes  him  a  subject  for  prolonged  and  vast  agony  ;  and  patience 
is  unknown  to  him.  The  elements  seem  to  have  conspired  against  him 
with  his  unnatural  daughters  ;  the  upheaval  of  the  moral  world  and  the 
rage  of  the  tempest  in  the  air  seem  to  be  parts  of  the  same  gigantic  con- 
vulsion. In  the  midst  of  this  tempest  wanders  unhoused  the  white- 
haired  Lear  ;  while  his  Fool  —  most  pathetic  of  all  the  minor  characters 
of  Shakespeare  —  jests,  half-wildly,  half-coherently,  half-bitterly,  half-ten- 
derly,  and  always  with  a  sad  remembrance  of  the  happier  past.  The 
poor  boy's  heart  has  been  sore,  ever  since  his  '  young  mistress  went  to 


112  APPENDIX. 

France.'  *  *  *  *  Everywhere  throughout  the  play  Shakespeare's 
imaginative  daring  impresses  us.  Nothing  in  poetry  is  bolder  or  more 
wonderful  than  the  scene  on  the  night  of  the  tempest,  in  the  hovel  where 
the  king,  whose  intellect  has  now  given  way,  is  in  company  with  Edgar, 
assuming  madness,  the  Fool,  with  his  forced  and  pathetic  mirth,  and 
Kent."  EDWARD  DOWDEN. 


"  The  story  of  Lear  and  his  daughters  was  left  by  Shakespeare  exactly 
as  he  found  it  in  a  fabulous  tradition,  with  all  the  features  characteristical 
of  the  simplicity  of  old  times.  But,  in  that  tradition  there  is  not  the 
slightest  trace  of  the  story  of  Gloster  and  his  sons,  which  was  derived  by 
Shakespeare  from  another  source.  The  incorporation  of  the  two  stories 
has  been  censured  as  destructive  of  the  unity  of  action.  But,  whatever 
contributes  to  the  intrigue  or  the  denouement  must  always  possess  unity : 
and  with  what  ingenuity  and  skill  are  the  two  main  parts  of  the  composi- 
tion dove-tailed  into  one  another !  The  pity  felt  by  Gloster  for  the  fate 
of  Lear  becomes  the  means  which  enables  his  son  Edmund  to  effect  his 
complete  destruction,  and  affords  the  outcast  Edgar  an  opportunity  of 
being  the  saviour  of  his  father.  On  the  other  hand,  Edmund  is  active  in 
the  cause  of  Regan  and  Goneril :  and  the  criminal  passion  which  they 
both  entertain  for  him  induces  them  to  execute  justice  on  each  other 
and  themselves.  The  laws  of  the  drama  have,  therefore,  been  suffi- 
ciently complied  with ;  but  that  is  the  least:  it  is  the  very  combination 
which  constitutes  the  sublime  beauty  of  the  work." 

"  Of  Cordelia's  heavenly  beauty  of  soul,  painted  in  so  few  words,  I 
will  not  venture  to  speak.  She  can  only  be  named  in  the  same  breath 
With  Antigone.  Her  death  has  been  thought  too  cruel ;  and  in  England 
the  piece  is,  in  acting,  so  far  altered  that  she  remains  victorious  and 
happy.  I  must  own  I  cannot  conceive  what  ideas  of  art  and  dramatic 
connection  those  persons  have  who  suppose  that  we  can  at  pleasure 
tack  a  double  conclusion  to  a  tragedy :  a  melancholy  one  for  hard- 
hearted spectators,  and  a  happy  one  for  souls  of  a  softer  mould.  After 
surviving  so  many  sufferings  Lear  can  only  die;  and  what  more  truly 
tragic  ending  for  him  than  to  die  from  grief  for  the  death  of  Cordelia  ? 
And,  if  he  is  also  to  be  saved  and  to  pass  the  remainder  of  his  days  in 
happiness,  the  whole  loses  its  signification.  According  to  Shakes- 
peare's plan,  the  guilty,  it  is  true,  are  punished,  for  wickedness  destroys 
itself ;  but  the  virtues  that  would  bring  help  and  succour  are  everywhere 
too  late,  or  overmatched  by  the  cunning  activity  of  malice.  The  persons 
of  this  drama  have  only  such  a  faint  belief  in  Providence  as  heathens  may 


APPENDIX.  113 

be  supposed  to  have ;  and  the  poet  here  wishes  to  show  us  that  this 
belief  requires  a  wider  range  than  the  dark  pilgrimage  on  earth,  to  be 
established  in  full  extent."  SCHLEGEL. 


"  The  Fool  is  no  comic  buffoon,  to  make  the  groundlings  laugh,  no 
forced  condescension  of  Shakespeare's  genius  to  the  taste  of  his  audience. 
Accordingly,  the  poet  prepares  for  his  introduction,  which  he  never  doej 
with  any  of  his  common  clowns  and  fools,  by  bringing  him  into  living 
connection  with  the  pathos  of  the  play.  He  is  as  wonderful  a  creation 
as  Caliban  :  his  wild  babblings  and  inspired  idiocy  articulate  and  gauge 
the  horrors  of  the  scene."  COLERIDGE. 


"  True  love  and  fidelity  are  no  more  to  be  estranged  by  *'//  than  false- 
hood and  hollow-heartedness  can  be  conciliated  by  good  usage. " 

CHARLES  LAMB. 


"  Most  actors, — Garrick,  Kemble,  and  Kean,  among  others, —  seem 
to  have  based  their  conception  of  the  character  of  King  Lear  on  the 
infirmity  usually  associated  with  'four-score  and  upwards,"  and  have 
represented  the  feebleness  instead  of  the  vigour  of  old  age.  But  Lear's 
was,  in  truth,  '  a  lusty  winter  :'  his  language  never  betrays  imbecility 
of  mind  or  body.  He  confers  his  kingdom,  indeed,  on  '  younger 
strengths;'  but  there  is  still  sufficient  invigorating  him  to  allow  him  to 
ride,  to  hunt,  to  run  wildly  through  the  fury  of  the  storm,  to  slay  the  ruf- 
fian who  murdered  his  Cordelia,  and  to  bear  about  her  dead  body  in  his 
arms.  There  is,  moreover,  a  heartiness,  and  even  jollity,  in  his  blither 
moments,  no  way  akin  to  the  helplessness  of  senility.  Indeed,  the  tow- 
ering range  of  thought  with  which  his  mind  dilates, — identifying  the 
heavens  themselves  with  his  grief, — and  the  power  of  conceiving  such 
vast  imaginings  would  seem  incompatible  with  a  tottering,  trembling 
frame,  and  betoken,  rather,  one  of  '  mighty  bone  and  bold  emprise,'  in 
the  outward  bearing  of  the  grand  old  man."  MACREADY. 


V.— ULRICI'S  THOUGHTS  ON  KING  LEAR. 

"  To  understand  the  organic  coherence  of  the  whole  —  to  discover  the 
intrinsic  necessity  of  the  tragic  development  in  all  its  moments — to  find 
the  fundamental  idea — the  living  centre,  as  it  were,  around  which  the 


114  APPENDIX. 

several  parts  revolve,  and  thereby  adjust  themselves  into  a  whole  —  all 
this  requires  profundity  of  view  and  a  firm,  aesthetical  basis  of  criticism. 

"  In  the  present  piece  the  ground  idea  of  the  whole  is  reflected  in  all  the 
subordinate  parts,  more  clearly  than  in  any  other  of  Shakespeare's 
dramas :  for  the  tie  between  parent  and  child,  which  in  a  high  historical 
sense  forms  here  the  basis  of  the  tragic  sentiment,  has  for  its  foundation 
wedlock,  and  the  religious  sanction  of  the  intercourse  of  the  sexes. 
Accordingly,  strong  rays  of  light  are  thrown  off  from  this  central  idea 
upon  both  these  civilizing  influences  of  human  life. 

"  In  '  King  Lear '  parental  affection  and  filial  reverence  are  contemplated 
as  the  focus  towards  which  all  the  ties  of  life  converge,  and  the  family — 
in  its  largest  and  historical  import — is  the  particular  grade  of  life  in 
which  the  poet  has  here  taken  up  his  position  within  the  domain  of 
poetry. 

"  Lear,  '  in  every  inch  a  king,'  had  accustomed  himself  to  the  thought 
of,  and  set  his  heart  on,  being  the  unlimited  master  of  the  world ; 
although  in  boundless  love  he  gives  his  kingdom  away,  it  is  still  his 
sovereign  pleasure  to  measure  even  affection  by  his  own  arbitrary  will, 
and  he  would  lord  even  over  it.  Even  when  he  has  overthrown  this 
visionary  empire  by  his  own  folly,  he  must  still  command ;  he  fights 
against  the  very  elements,  he  is  determined  to  be  at  least  the  master  of 
his  own  sufferings  and  his  own  destiny.  But  for  this  the  necessary 
powers  fail  him  ;  and  consequently  the  general  disorder  of  all  the  moral 
relations  of  life  terminates  in  madness.  It  was  only  by  such  an  affliction 
that  a  character  like  his  could  be  brought  to  repentance ;  and  by  such 
means  alone  could  the  propitiatory  element  of  tragedy  be  manifested  in 
his  case.  It  was  not  until  his  kingly  spirit,  his  haughty  virtue,  his 
energy  and  sovereignty  of  will,  had  been  utterly  overthrown,  that  he 
could  be  brought  to  the  humility  which  is  the  parent  of  true  love,  and 
that  love  in  him  could  be  purified. 

"  Lear  is  depicted  as  the  head  not  only  of  a  family,  but  also  of  the  state 
— as  the  ruler  of  a  great  nation.  The  more  seriously,  therefore,  and  the 
more  directly  his  domestic  circumstances  influence  the  destinies  of  a 
whole  people,  the  more  clearly  does  the  .importance  of  the  family  bond 
appear.  The  tragedy  sets  before  us  the  public  fortunes  of  a  great  nation 
in  the  first  instance,  and  ultimately  the  history  of  the  whole  world,  as 
affected  by  the  morality  or  immorality  of  private  life,  and  it  becomes, 
consequently,  not  merely  in  its  ideal  subject-matter,  but  also  by  the 
course  taken  by  the  represented  fable,  a  mirror  of  history  in  general. 

"Lear's  stronger  and  bolder  spirit  makes  head  against  external  troubles ; 
he  struggles  against  the  fun'  of  the  elements  as  against  the  wickedness 


APPENDIX.  115 

of  man.  It  is  only  from  within  that  he  can  be  conquered ;  in  the  violent 
convulsive  effort  to  master  the  deep  emotions  of  his  heart,  the  bonds  of 
reason  snap  asunder,  and  madness  spreads  its  nightly,  veiling  darkness 
over  him. 

"As  the  family  tie — the  first  and  absolutely  indispensable  foundation  of 
all  moral  and  intellectual  development  has  been  irremediably  broken, 
and  thereby  the  whole  of  human  existence  completely  unsettled,  being 
let  loose  from  its  primary  source  and  reality  in  God ;  this  convulsion  and 
the  extreme  enormity  of  sin  must  be  exhibited  both  internally  and 
externally.  Its  external  and  objective  manifestation  is  in  the  disruption 
of  all  human  relations,  and  in  the  fruitless  struggle  of  good  against  evil ; 
inwardly  and  subjectively  it  attains  its  climax  in  the  disorganization  of 
the  King's  mind,  whose  personality  formed  the  subjective  centre  of  the 
whole  piece. 

"  The  high  mid-day  sun  has  now  sunk  into  the  fresh,  glowing,  but  fast 
fading  tints  of  evening.  The  old  Lear  is  still  vigorous  both  in  mind  and 
body ;  his  old  age  has  not  tempered  the  faults  of  his  nature ;  his 
obstinacy,  love  of  power,  passion  and  rashness,  are  as  strong  as  ever ; 
his  heart  still  retains  all  its  freshness  and  impetuosity.  The  rich  measure 
of  love  which  has  fallen  to  the  portion  of  Lear's  heart  is  blindly  lavished 
by  him  to  the  last  drops  upon  his  children  ;  he  resigns  to  them  his  all,  in 
the  hope  of  finding  in  their  love  and  gratitude  repose  from  the  storms 
and  fatigues  of  his  long  life.  But  the  affection  of  Lear  leads  him  to 
forget  the  king  in  the  parent,  and  in  a  father's  care  to  overlook  all  other 
duties.  Its  first  thought  is  of  the  external  and  terrestrial,  not  the  inward 
and  everlasting,  welfare  of  his  children.  As  it  has  not  its  root  in  the  divine 
truth,  it  consequently  mistakes  its  true  nature,  and,  refusing  the  genuine 
return  of  deep  and  silent  gratitude,  accepts  in  the  stead  a  worthless 
counterfeit.  Such  a  false,  and  in  fact  immoral  love  of  the  parent,  is,  by 
an  intrinsic  necessity,  closely  followed  by  the  perfidy,  ingratitude,  and 
guilt  of  the  children.  True  family  love  can  only  exist  in  the  calm, 
unconscious,  disinterested  union  of  hearts  in  which  outward  and  inward, 
objective  and  subjective,  are  so  .perfectly  blended  into  one,  that  no 
outward  sanction,  no  notions  of  right  and  duty,  reward  or  recompense, 
are  ever  pressed  into  consideration.  Accordingly,  we  must  look  upon 
Lear  himself  as  the  prime  cause  of  the  tragic  complication,  and  the 
guilty  author  of  his  own  fate,  no  less  than  of  the  crimes  and  sufferings  of 
his  daughters.  He  falls  the  victim  of  the  errors  and  weakness  of  his  own 
affectionate  heart.  Thus  invariably  does  the  lovely  and  noble  of  this 
earth  hasten  to  perdition  whenever  unpurified  and  earthly :  it  neglects 
to  look  back  to  its  divine  origin  for  its  true  strength  and  support. 


Il6  .    APPENDIX. 

"As  Shakespeare  everywhere  exhibits  the  most  wonderful  power  in 
completely  exhausting  the  particular  subject  he  has  in  hand,  so,  in  the 
present  piece,  he  is  not  content  with  simply  exhibiting  the  fundamental 
idea  in  the  fortunes  of  the  King  and  his  family.  He  sets  it  forth  under 
another  aspect. 

"  In  order  to  shew  that  a  moral  corruption  is  never  solitary,  but  it  in  its 
seed  and  principle  universal  and  ultimately  resting  on  the  sinfulness  of 
the  whole  human  race,  he  has  taken  the  noblest  families  as  representa- 
tives of  the  great  family  of  man,  and  made  them  the  victims  of  the 
moral  pestilence.  While  a  passionate,  unreal  tenderness  avenges  itself 
on  Lear,  the  fate  of  Gloster  is  the  consequence  of  unrepented  juvenile 
excess,  on  which  (as  shewn  in  the  first  scene)  the  old  man  still  reflects 
with  wanton  pleasure.  For  the  stain  of  his  birth  the  bastard  Edmund 
punishes  his  father,  who  is  as  credulous  and  superstitious  in  his  old  age 
as  he  was  light-hearted  and  thoughtless  in  youth.  While  in  the  one  case 
the  open  folly  of  the  parent  is  answered  by  the  open  and  shameless 
crimes  of  the  children,  in  the  other,  secret  sins  are  met  by  hidden  and 
sanctified  enormity.  In  the  former  case  the  family  tie  is  broken,  together 
with  the  false  and  rickety  foundation  on  which  it  rested  ;  in  the  latter  it 
is  annihilated  by  the  retributive  poison  of  a  single  sin,  which  from  the 
first  had  eaten  away  the  only  stay  of  domestic  happiness — true  purity  of 
heart. 

"It  was  necessary  to  portray  Lear  and  Gloster  as  infinitely  more  sinned 
against  than  sinning,  in  order  thereby  to  point  out  how  sins,  such  as 
those  of  which  they  were  the  first  cause,  spring  up  like  weeds,  from 
small  beginnings  to  an  unforeseen  magnitude,  until  they  cover  the  whole 
soil,  and  absorb  its  most  precious  juices.  That  their  baneful  influence 
should  have  been  stronger  on  the  female  mind  than  on  that  of  man  —  for 
Edmund,  however  guilty,  has  some  palliation  to  plead  in  the  dishonour 
of  his  origin  —  is  but  founded  on  the  truth  of  nature.  Since  the  vocation 
of  woman  is  domestic  life,  from  which  both  her  character  and  feelings 
take  their  tone,  whenever  this  is  corrupt  and  her  sole  stay  undermined, 
woman  necessarily  falls  lower  than  man,  who,  by  his  very  nature,  is 
thrown  more  upon  himself,  and  placed  on  a  wider  basis  of  existence. 

"Cordelia pays  the  penalty  of  the  fault  she  committed,  when,  instead  of 
affectionately  humouring  the  weakness  of  her  aged  father,  she  met  him 
with  unfilial  frowardness,  and  answered  his,  no  doubt,  foolish  questions 
with  unbecoming  harshness  and  asperity ;  a  father's  curse  lights  upon 
her  head,  and  its  direful  consequences  cannot  afterwards  be  avoided. 
The  slighter  her  failing  may  appear,  the  deeper  is  the  tragic  effect  of  its 
heavy  penalty.  For  the  true  force  of  the  tragic  lies  exactly  in  this,  that 


APPENDIX.  117 

the  trivial  faults  of  the  good  are  overwhelmed  in  the  same  ruin  as  the 
most  revolting  offences  of  the  bad ;  with  this  difference,  however,  that 
whereas  to  the  former  purification  and  atonement  (and  consequently  true 
life  also)  is  conveyed  in  its  annihilation,  to  the  latter  temporary  destruc- 
tion and  punishment  bring  likewise  eternal  death. 

"All  the  profound  though tfulness  on  which  the  tragic  view  of  the 
world  ultimately  rests,  lies  hidden  in  the  deep  meditative  humour  of 
the  Fool,  against  which  the  tragic  form  of  art  is,  as  it  were,  broken,  in 
order  to  display  more  clearly  its  inmost  core.  This  genuine  humour  of 
the  Fool  plays,  as  it  were,  with  the  tragical;  to  it  pain  or  pleasure, 
happiness  or  misery,  are  all  the  same ;  it  makes  a  sport  of  the  most 
heart-rending  sufferings  and  misfortunes  of  earthly  existence  ;  even  from 
death  and  destruction  it  can  derive  amusement.  By  these  qualities  he  is 
raised  high  above  this  earthly  existence ;  and  he  has  already  attained  to 
that  elevation  of  the  human  mind  above  all  the  pursuits  or  sorrows  of  this 
earthly  life,  which  it  is  the  end  of  this  tragic  art  to  set  forth,  and  which 
is,  as  it  were,  personified  in  him.  The  humour  itself  is,  in  its  very 
essence,  the  sublime  of  Comic.  Although  fully  conscious  of  all  the  grave 
seriousness  and  responsibilities  of  life,  in  its  profoundest  depths,  he  yet 
pursues,  even  with  this  profundity  and  seriousness,  his  sportive  mockery, 
and  has  no  misgivings  even,  because  he  is  raised  far  above  this  earth  and 
its  interests.  To  one  who  looks  upon  the  whole  of  life  as  nothing,  his 
outward  position  in  it  must  be  immaterial.  Accordingly,  the  Fool 
departs  from  this  life  with  a  witticism  in  his  mouth  — '  He  '11  go  to  bed  at 
noon.'  But  his  sublime  elevation  is  not  a  mere  stoical  indifference;  it 
is  united  with  the  truest  love  and  fidelity,  and  the  most  rare  sympathy. 
His  heartfelt  sorrow  for  his  dear  Cordelia  and  his  beloved  King  has 
sapped  his  life. 

"  Lear's  madness,  too,  terminates  with  his  mortal  sigh  for  Cordelia's 
loss.  In  this  moment  of  anguish  all  the  rich  intensity  of  love,  which  sat 
enthroned  in  the  heart  of  Lear,  has  found  its  worthy  object.  While  the 
faint  sparks  of  life  are  extinguishing,  his  love  puts  off  its  last  earthly 
weakness,  and  ascends  purified  and  refined  to  heaven.  The  tragic 
impression  loses  its  crushing  and  oppressive  horror,  and  is  transmuted 
into  the  calm  consolatory  feeling  of  a  gentle  death  and  a  blissful  peace." 

VI. — THE  MADNESS  OF  KING  LEAR. 

"  It  is  on  the  development  of  insanity,  the  gradual  loosening  of  the 
mind  from  the  props  and  supports  of  reason  and  of  fact,  the  gradual 
transition  of  the  feelings  from  their  old  habitudes  and  relations  to  morbid 


Il8  APPENDIX. 

and  perverted  excess,  the  gradual  exaggeration  of  some  feelings  and  the 
extinction  of  others,  and  the  utter  loss  of  mental  balance  resulting  there- 
from ;  it  is  on  this  passage  from  the  state  of  man,  when  reason  is  on  its 
throne,  to  a  state  when  the  royal  insignia  of  his  pre-eminence  among 
God's  creatures  are  defaced,  that  the  great  dramatist  loves  to  dwell. 
The  wilfulness  with  which  critics  have  refused  to  see  the  symptoms  of 
insanity  in  Lear  until  the  reasoning  power  itself  has  become  undeniably 
alienated,  is  founded  upon  the  view  of  mental  disease  which  has,  until 
recently,  been  entertained  even  by  physicians,  and  which  is  still  main- 
tained in  courts  of  law,  namely,  that  insanity  is  an  affection  of  the  intel- 
lectual and  not  of  the  emotional  part  of  man's  nature.  *  *  *  No  state 
of  the  reasoning  faculty  can,  by  itself,  be  the  cause  or  condition  of  mad- 
ness ;  congenital  idiocy  and  acquired  dementia  being  alone  excepted. 
The  intellectual  and  excited  babbling  of  the  Fool  and  the  exaggerated 
absurdities  of  Edgar  are  stated  by  Ulrici,  and  other  critics,  to  exert  a 
bad  influence  upon  the  king's  mind.  To  persons  unacquainted  with  the 
character  of  the  insane,  this  opinion  must  seem,  at  least,  to  be  highly 
probable,  notwithstanding  that  the  evidence  of  the  drama  itself  is  against 
it;  for  Lear  is  comparatively  tranquil  in  conduct  and  language  during 
the  whole  period  of  Edgar's  mad  companionship. 

The  singular  and  undoubted  fact  was  probably  unknown  to  Ulrici,  that 
few  things  tranquilize  the  insane  more  than  the  companionship  of  the 
insane.  It  is  a  fact  not  easily  explicable,  but  it  is  one  of  which,  either 
by  the  intuition  of  genius,  or  by  the  information  of  experience,  Shakes- 
peare appears  to  be  aware."  BUCKNILL. 


"  In  the  anger  and  agony  of  Lear  ;  in  the  muscular  insanity  with  which 
he  tries  to  grapple  with  fate,  as  if  to  catch  it  by  the  throat,  and  strangle 
it  in  mortal  fight;  in  his  measuring  his  passions  with  elemental  forces; 
looking  for  sympathy  with  his  age  to  the  olden  heavens,  and  finding  in 
the  hurricane  but  inadequate  resemblance  to  the  malignity  of  his 
daughters ; —  in  all  this  we  have  no  incidental  ebullition :  we  have,  in 
condensation,  the  wholeness  of  a  life,  the  entireness  of  a  self-willed,  self- 
indulgent,  impulsive  mind,  wrenched  from  all  that  kept  it  stable,  and 
whirled  into  darkness,  amidst  tempest  and  convulsion  —  the  turbulence 
and  fury  of  a  most  physical  and  most  impassioned  nature.  It  is  thus 
that  Shakespeare  constantly  shows  us  the  radical  nature  of  a  man  in  his 
supreme  trial,  even  in  the  wildness  and  terrors  of  insanity." 

HENRY  GILES. 


APPENDIX.  Iig 

"  Edgar's  assumed  madness  serves  the  great  purpose  of  taking  off 
part  of  the  shock  which  would  otherwise  be  caused  by  the  true  madness 
of  Lear,  and  further  displays  the  profound  difference  between  the  two. 
In  every  attempt  at  representing  madness,  throughout  the  whole  range 
of  dramatic  literature,  with  the  single  exception  of  Lear,  it  is  mere  light- 
headedness,  as  especially  in  Otway.  In  Edgar's  ravings,  Shakespeare 
all  the  while  lets  you  see  a  fixed  purpose,  a  practical  end  in  view.  In 
Lear's  there  is  only  the  brooding  of  the  one  anguish,  an  eddy  without 
progression."  COLERIDGE. 

VII. — THE  DRESSING,  ETC.,  OF  KING  LEAR. 

Guizot  remarks  that :  "  The  time  in  which  Shakespeare  laid  his  action 
seems  to  have  emancipated  him  from.all  conventional  forms  ;  and  just  as 
he  felt  no  difficulty  in  placing  a  King  of  France,  a  Duke  of  Albany,  and 
a  Duke  of  Cornwall  eight  hundred  years  [and  more]  before  the  Christian 
era,  so  he  felt  no  necessity  for  connecting  the  language  and  the  charac- 
ters of  his  drama  with  any  determinate  period."  And  Dr.  Johnson  says, 
in  a  kindred  vein,  that :  "  Shakespeare,  by  the  mention  of  his  earls  and 
dukes  [in  this  tragedy],  has  given  us  the  idea  of  times  more  civilized  and 
of  life  regulated  by  softer  manners." — These  views  indicate  the  usage 
proper  to  be  followed  in  mounting  and  dressing  "  King  Lear."  The 
Britons  of  A.  M.  3105  probably  wore  skins — principally  their  own.  The 
tragedy  should  be  dressed  according  to  the  civilization  of  a  much  later 
period,  with  rude  fabrics,  but  with  some  pomp  and  richness.  The  time 
of  the  action  of  this  tragedy  cannot  be  determined  with  absolute  precision. 
Immediately  after  the  partition  of  the  kingdom  is  accomplished,  Lear 
departs  to  the  castle  of  Goneril.  The  first  quarrel  occurs  before  the 
close  of  the  first  month — apparently — of  his  residence  in  that  place. 
There  is  nothing,  however,  to  make  it  certain  that  this  breach  should 
not  be  referred  to  a  later  time  —  the  third  month  or  the  fifth.  It  is  here 
assumed,  however,  to  occur  in  the  first.  Then  comes  the  quarrel  with 
Regan,  which  the  text  distinctly  places  within  two  days  after  the  quarrel 
with  Goneril.  The  incidents  of  the  night  and  tempest,  upon  the  heath, 
immediately  follow.  Three  acts  of  the  piece  are  thus  comprised  within 
less  than  a  month.  It  seems  sufficient  to  allow  about  three  weeks  for 
the  military  proceedings  which  bring  on  the  final  catastrophe.  The 
scrupulous  analyst  of  the  text  obtains  many  side  lights  upon  points  of  this 
class:  such  as  Lear's  reference  to  his  dead  wife,  and  Regan's  remem- 
brance that  Edgar,  when  an  infant,  received  his  name  from  Lear. 

NEW-YORK,  March  3oth,  1878.  W.  W. 


JULIUS  CAESAR 


preface. 

/N  the  composition  of  his  play  of  "Julius  Ccesar"  Shake- 
speare built  upon  the  records  of  Plutarch.  Sir  Thomas 
Norths  translation  of  Plutarch,  from  the  French  of 
Amyot,  was,  evidently,  known  to  him,  seeing  that  he  has 
adopted  North's  historical  errors,  and,  in  several  instances, 
has  paraphrased,  in  verse,  the  exact  chronicle  made,  by 
North,  in  prose.  The  play  was  written  in  1600  or  1601,  and 
it  was  first  published  in  the  Folio  of  1623.  The  text  is 
thought  to  be  somewhat  exceptionally  free  from  errors.  "  We 
know  of  no  play  of  Shakespeare's"  says  Charles  Knight, 
"  that  presents  so  few  difficulties  arising  out  of  inaccuracies 
in  the  original  edition  ;  there  are  some  half-dozen  passages 
in.  which  there  are  manifest  typographical  errors."  Mr. 
Fie  ay  declares  that  "  the  present  play  has  been  greatly  short- 
ened" and  that  this  "  is  shown  by  the  singularly  large  number 
of  instances  in  which  mute  characters  are  on  the  stage — 
which  is  totally  at  variance  with  Shakespeare's  usual  prac- 
tice" The  same  learned,  acute,  and  ingenious  writer  re- 
marks that  ' '  the  first  three  acts  and  the  last  two  have  no 
characters  in  common,  except  Brutus,  Cassius,  Antony,  and 
Lucius,"  and  that  "there  are,  in  fact,  two  plays  in  one, 
C&sar's  Tragedy  and  Cesar's  Revenge."  This  was  long 
ago  observed  by  John  Sheffield,  Duke  of  Buckinghamshire, 
who  framed  two  tragedies  out  of  Shakespeare' s  play, — called 
"Julius  Ccesar"  and  "  Marcus  Brutus"  1722. 

Several  of  the  earlier  Shakespeare  editors  refer  to  a  sim- 
ilarity between  lines  in  Antony's  speech  over  the  body  of 
Brutus,  in  the  last  scene  of  the  play,  and  a  passage  in 


II  PREFACE. 

Drayton' s  "Barons'1  War,"  1603.  Keightley,  one  of  the 
safest  guides  to  the  study  of  Shakespeare,  directs  attention  to 
the  character  of  Crites,  in  Ben  Jonsoris  "  Cynthia's  Revels" 
acted  in  1600,  and  suggests  that  "  the  immediate  original  of 
the  passage,  in  both  poets"  Shakespeare  and  Drayton,  may 
be  found  in  that  play,  act  II,  scene  i ;  and,  furthermore,  he 
refers  to  an  earlier  original,  in  Chaucer's  "  Tale  of  the 
Doctor  of  Physik"  The  fact,  if  fact  it  be,  that  alterations 
were  made  in  the  text  of  "Julius  Ccesar"  between  the  time  of 
its  production  on  the  stage,  1600  or  1601,  and  that  of  its  first 
publication,  1623,  is,  in  part  inferred  from  Ben  Jonson' s 
references — in  his  "  Staple  of  News  "  and  his  "  Timber,  or 
Discoveries" — to  a  line  in  the  play,  as  originally  given, 
which  he  calls  "  ridiculous"  :  "  Ccesar  did  never  wron.gbut 
with  just  cause."  Shakespeare  died  in  1616.  The  Folio, 
appearing  in  1623,  did  not  contain  that  line,  but  gave  the 
reading  as  it  now  stands.  Jonson,  nevertheless,  is  found  to 
be  gibing  at  this  absurdity,  in  his  "  Staple  of  News"  which 
was  acted  in  1625.  Both  the  ' '  Staple  of  News "  and  the 
"  Timber"  however,  may  have  been  written  prior  to  1623  and 
therefore  prior  to  the  correction  of  the  error,  although,  in- 
deed, there  is  not  much  reason  to  think  that  Jonson  would 
have  been  very  scrupulous  as  to  the  exact  propriety  of  a  dig  at 
another  dramatist.  He  had  participated,  and  so  had  Shake- 
speare, as  well  as  Drayton,  Lodge,  Dekker,  and  others,  in  ' '  the 
war  of  the  theatres"  and  no  love  appears  to  have  been  lost 
among  those  combatants ;  albeit,  after  Shakespeare's  death, 
Jonson  wrote  of  him  with  cordial  kindness.  Mr.  Fie  ay  notes, 
as  an  additiotial  sign  that  alterations  were  made  in  "Julius 
C&sar"  and  that  some  other  hand  than  that  of  Shakest>eo~e 
made  them,  the  fact  that  the  name  of  Antony,  in  this  play,  is 
spelled  without  an  h;  whereas,  occiirring  in  eight  of 
Shakespeare's  plays,  that  name  is  invariably  spelled  with  an 
h  in  every  instance  except  this  one. 


PREFACE.  Ill 

These  details  indicate  the  importance  of  a  close  scrutiny 
of  the  text.  The  errors  in  the  Folio  are  considerable  in 
number,  and,  precious  though  it  be,  that  book  cannot  be  im- 
plicitly trusted.  Students  ought  to  possess  Keightley's 
"Shakespeare  Expositor"  and  KinneaSs  "Cruces  Shake- 
speariance"  and  ought  to  consult  them,  as  to  every  one  of 
Shakespeare's  plays.  Much  help,  likewise,  may  be  derived 
from}.  Payne  Collier1  s"  Notes  and  Emendations"  for  Collier 
was  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  subject,  and  he  had  an  abun- 
dance of  general  learning,  no  matter  what  cloud  of  doubt  may 
rest  on  the  authenticity  of  the  MS.  corrector  of  his  Second 
Folio.  And  every  student  should  read  the  writings  of 
Edward  Dowden,  the  most  profound  and  sympathetic  Shake- 
spearean critic  of  our  age.  Dowden,  writing  of  "Julius 
C<zsar"  suggests  that  Shakespeare  was, probably,  acquainted 
with  a  translation  (there  was  one  published  in  1578),  of  the 
account  of  the  Civil  Wars,  by  the  Roman  historian,  Appian, 
and  that  he  derived  some  hints  from  it  for  the  orations  of 
Brutus  and  Antony.  Antony's  oration  over  the  corpse  of 
Casar  has  always  been  regarded  as  one  of  the  best 
examples  of  Shakespeare's  invention;  it  owes  nothing  to 
Plutarch  except  the  incident  of  the  display  of  the  dead  body  ; 
whereas  the  words  of  Bruttts,  spoken  over  the  dead  Cassius, 
in  the  last  act,  are  directly  taken  from  that  original: 

"  The  last  of  all  the  Romans,  fare  thee  well ! 
It  is  impossible  that  ever  Rome 
Should  breed  thy  fellow" 

A  play  called  the  "History  of  Ccesar  and  Pompey"  is 
mentioned  by  Stephen  Gosson  (1554-1623),  as  existent  in 
1579,  and  mention  is  made  by  Skottowe  of  a  Latin  play  by  Dr. 
Richard  Eedes  (died  at  Worcester,  England,  November 19, 
1604),  which  was  acted  in  Oxford  Utiiversity  in  1582. 
Voltaire  treated  the  Julius  Casar  story,  in  his  tragedy  called 


IV  PREFACE. 

"  The  Death  of  C&sar"  and  Aaron  Hill  founded  upon  Vol- 
taire's play  his  "Roman  Revenge"  1753.  Both  of  these 
pieces  adopt  the  tale  that  Brutus  was  C&sar's  son,  by  Ser- 
villia,  sister  of  Cato — an  absurdity,  for  C&sar  was  scarcely 
turned  fourteen  when  Brutus  was  born.  Voltaire's  tragedy 
contains  no  women.  Hill's  portraiture  of  Casar  is  highly 
colored,  but  not  without  some  JTtstification,  for  C&sar,  although 
his  character  had  somewhat  deteriorated  toward  the  end  of 
his  life  (Plutarch),  was  the  greatest  man  of  the  actual  group. 
Hill  makes  Portia  and  Calphurnia  intimate,  life -long  friends. 
Bolingbroke  admired  Hill's  play,  and  so  did  Pope;  but 
Garrick  would  not  act  in  it,  and  the  public  did  not  care  for 
it.  William  Alexander,  Earl  of  Stirling  (died  1640),  wrote 
a  tragedy  on  Julius  Casar,  1604  (Malone  says  1607),  and 
this,  with  his  other  works,  '  'Darius, "  "  Croesus"  ' '  The  Alex- 
andrcean  Tragedy"  etc.,  were  published  in  folio  in  1637. 
Sense,  formality,  and  dtdlness  are  the  chief  characteristics  of 
the  Earl's  style.  An  alteration  of  Shakespeare's  "fulius 
Casar"  made  by  Davenant  and  Dryden,  and  acted  at  Drury 
Lane,  was  published  in  1719.  Sheffield's  Julius  Ccesar 
plays,  1772,  were  never  much  esteemed:  they  are  clumsy 
alterations  of  Shakespeare"  s  tragedy.  One  scene  represents 
Brutus  in  love  !  There  is  a  chorus  at  the  end  of  each  act. 
Alexander  also  employs  the  chorus.  Sheffield  introduces  in 
his  "Marcus  Brutus,"  new  characters,  one  of  them  being 
Junia,  wife  of  Cassius.  Examination  of  those  plays  serves 
only  to  illustrate  and  confirm  the  superiority  of  Shakespeare, 
January,  7^99.  W.  W. 


m 

"  There  is  not  one  person  in  ten  thousand  who  knows  what  Liberty 
means,  or  cares  a  straw  for  any  happiness  but  his  own." — PEACOCK. 


"  There  is  one  alone,  and  there  is  not  a  second." — ECCLESIASTES 
,  8.  

"Here  we  embrace,  and  Til  unlock  my  heart. 
A  council 's  held  hard  by,  where  the  destruction 
Ofthit  great  empire  's  hatching :  there  /Y/  lead  thee. 
.  .  .  To  mix  with  men 
Fit  to  disturb  the  peace  of  all  the  world 
And  rule  it  when  'tis  wildest." — OTWAY. 


"  That  Julius  Ccesar  was  a  famous  man  ; 
With  what  his  valor  did  enrich  his  wit 
His  juit  set  down  to  make  his  valor  live. 
Death  makes  no  conquest  of  this  conqueror, 
for  now  he  lines  in  fame,  though  not  in  life." 

— SHAKESPEARE. 

"Heroes  may  kill  tyrants,  but  it  is  wisdom  and  laws  that  prevent 
tyranny  and  oppression." — ELIZABETH  MONTAGU. 


"A  perfect  man 

As  ever  Nature  in  one  frame  did  span. 
Such  high-born  thought,  a  soul  so  large  and  free, 
So  clear  a  judgment  and  vast  memory, 
So  princely,  hospitable,  and  brave  mind, 
We  must  not  think  in  haste  on  earth  to  find, 
Unless  the  times  would  turn  to  gold  again 
And  Nature  get  new  strength  informing  men," 

JAMES  HOWELL. 

"Desiredst  thou  what  truly  spurred  thee  on  ?  .  .  . 
Or  didst  thou  but,  as  cautious  schemers  use, 
Cloak  thine  ambition  with  these  specious  words  ? 
I  knew  not :  just,  in  either  case,  the  stroke 
Which  laid  thee  low,  for  blood  requires  blood." 

— MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 

"  We've  trod  the  maze  of  error  round, 

Long  wand' ring  in  the  winding  glade, 
And,  now  the  torch  of  truth  is  found, 

It  only  shows  us  where  we've  strayed." — C  RABBI, 


"  When  went  there  by  an  age  since  the  great  flood, 
But  it  was  famed  with  more  than  with  one  man  /"' 

"And  yesterday  the  bird  of  night  did  sit 
Even  at  noon-day  upon  the  market-place, 
Hooting  and  shrieking.'1'' 


'It  must  be  by  his  death.  .  .  , 
The  abuse  of  greatness  is  when  it  disjoins 
Remorse  from  power." 


"  I  heard  a  bustling  rumor,  like  a  fray, 
And  the  wind  brings  it  from  the  Capitol." 


"  Thou  art  the  ruins  of  the  noblest  man 
That  ever  lived  in  the  tide  of  times." 


"Mischief,  thou  art  afoot, — 
Take  thou  what  course  thou  wilt  f" 


"I  think  it  is  the  weakness  of  my  mine  eyes 
That  shapes  this  monstrous  apparition. 
It  comet  upon  me.     Art  thou  anything  ? 
Art  thou  some  god,  some  angel,  or  some  devil 
That  mak1  st  my  blood  cold  and  my  hair  to  stare  ?" 


"  Why,  now,  blow  wind,  swell  billow,  and  swim  bark  t 
The  storm  is  up  and  all  is  on  the  hazard." 


"  Time  is  come  round, 
And  where  I  did  begin,  there  shall  I  end ; 
My  life  is  run  his  compass." 


"  The  sun  of  Rome  is  set !     Our  day  is  gone  ! 
Clouds,  dews,  and  dangers  come  ;  our  deeds  are  done" 

"  When  you  do  find  him,  or  alive  or  dead, 
He  will  be  found  like  Brutus,  like  himself." 

"Night  hangs  upon  mine  eyes  ;  my  bones  would  rest, 
That  have  but  labored  to  attain  this  hour." 


"J/is  life  was  gentle,  and  the  elements 
So  mixed  in  him  that  Nature  might  stand  up 
And  say  to  all  the  world, '  This  was  a  man  /'  " 


JULIUS    CAESAR. 


ACT   I. 

SCENE  I.   Rome.   A  Public  Place.   A  Great  Tumult  without. 
Enter  CASCA,  TREBONIUS,  and  a  rabble  of  Citizens. 

CASCA. 

Hence  !  home,  you  idle  creatures,  get  you  home. 

Is  this  a  holiday  ?     What !  know  you  not, 

Being  mechanical,  you  ought  not  walk 

Upon  a  labouring  day  without  the  sign 

Of  your  profession  ?  —  Speak,  what  trade  art  thou  ? 

SECOND   CITIZEN. 

Why,  sir,  a  carpenter. 

TREBONIUS. 

Where  is  thy  leather  apron,  and  thy  rule  ?  — 
You,  sir ;  what  trade  are  you  ? 

FIRST   CITIZEN. 

Truly,  sir,  in  respect  of  a  fine  workman,  I  am  but,  as  you 
•would  say,  a  cobbler. 

TREBONIUS. 

But  what  trade  art  thou  ?    Answer  me  directly. 

FIRST   CITIZEN. 

A  trade,  sir,  that  I  hope  I  may  use  with  a  safe  conscience  ; 
which  is,  indeed,  sir,  a  mender  of  bad  soles. 


6  JULIUS    C^SAR. 

CASCA. 

What  trade,  thou  knave  ?  thou  naughty  knave,  what  trade  ? 

FIRST   CITIZEN. 

Nay,  I  beseech  you,  sir,  be  not  out  with  me ;  yet  if  you 
be  out,  sir,  I  can  mend  you. 

CASCA. 

What   mean'st   thou   by   that?     Mend   me,   thou   saucy 
fellow  ? 

FIRST   CITIZEN. 

Why,  sir,  cobble  you. 

TREBONIUS. 

Thou  art  a  cobbler,  art  thou  ? 

FIRST   CITIZEN. 

Truly,  sir,  all  that  I  live  by  is  with  the  awl.  I  meddle 
with  no  tradesman's  matters,  nor  women's  matters :  but 
withal  I  am,  indeed,  sir,  a  surgeon  to  old  shoes ;  when  they 
are  in  great  danger,  I  recover  them.  As  proper  men  as  ever 
trod  upon  neat's  leather  have  gone  upon  my  handiwork. 

TREBONIUS. 

But  wherefore  art  not  in  thy  shop  to-day? 
Why  dost  thou  lead  these  men  about  the  streets? 

FIRST   CITIZEN. 

Truly,  sir,  to  wear  out  their  shoes,  to  get  myself  into  more 
work.  But,  indeed,  sir,  we  make  holiday  to  see  Caesar,  and 
to  rejoice  in  his  triumph. 

CASCA. 

Wherefore  rejoice  ?    What  conquest  brings  he  home  ? 

What  tributaries  follow  him  to  Rome, 

To  grace  in  captive  bonds  his  chariot  wheels  ? 

You  blocks,  you  stones,  you  worse  than  senseless  things  ! 


JULIUS   CJESAR.  7 

O,  you  hard  hearts,  you  cruel  men  of  Rome, 

Knew  you  not  Pompey?     Many  a  time  and  oft 

Have  you  climb'd  up  to  walls  and  battlements, 

To  towers  and  windows,  yea,  to  chimney-tops, 

Your  infants  in  your  arms,  and  there  have  sat 

The  livelong  day,  with  patient  expectation, 

To  see  great  Pompey  pass  the  streets  of  Rome ; 

And,  when  you  saw  his  chariot  but  appear, 

Have  you  not  made  an  universal  shout, 

That  Tiber  trembled  underneath  her  banks, 

To  hear  the  replication  of  your  sounds 

Made  in  her  concave  shores  ? 

And  do  you  now  cull  out  a  holiday? 

And  do  you  now  strew  flowers  in  his  way 

That  comes  in  triumph  over  Pompey's  blood? 

Be  gone  ! 

Run  to  your  houses,  fall  upon  your  knees, 

Pray  to  the  gods  to  intermit  the  plague 

That  needs  must  light  on  this  ingratitude. 

TREBONIUS. 

Go,  go,  good  countrymen,  and,  for  this  fault, 

Assemble  all  the  poor  men  of  your  sort ; 

Draw  them  to  Tiber  banks,  and  weep  your  tears 

Into  the  channel,  till  the  lowest  stream 

Do  kiss  the  most  exalted  shores  of  all.  —  \_March, 

See  whe'r  their  baser  metal  be  not  mov'd  ! 

They  vanish  tongue-tied  in  their  guiltiness. 


Enter,  in  procession  with  music,  CAESAR  ;  ANTONY,  for  the 
course ;  CALPURNIA,  DECIUS,  and  CASCA,  a  great  crowd 
following,  among  them  a  Soothsayer. 

CESAR. 

Calpurnia  ! 

ANTONY. 

Peace,  ho  !     Caesar  speaks.  {Music  ceases. 


8  JULIUS   C^SAR. 

CESAR. 

Calpurnia ! 

CALPURNIA. 

Here,  my  lord. 

CESAR. 

Stand  you  directly  in  Antonius'  way, 
When  he  doth  run  his  course.  —  Antonius  ! 

ANTONY. 
Caesar,  my  lord  ! 

CESAR. 

Forget  not,  in  your  speed,  Antonius, 
To  touch  Calpurnia  ;  for  our  elders  say, 
The  barren,  touched  in  this  holy  chase, 
Shake  off  their  sterile  curse. 

ANTONY. 

I  shall  remember ; 
When  Caesar  says  "  Do  this,"  it  is  perform'd. 

CESAR. 
Set  on,  and  leave  no  ceremony  out.  [Music. 

SOOTHSAYER. 

Caesar  ! 

CESAR. 

Ha  !  who  calls  ? 

ANTONY. 

Bid  every  noise  be  still.  —  Peace  yet  again  !    [Music  ceases. 

CESAR. 

Who  is  it  in  the  press  that  calls  on  me  ? 
I  hear  a  tongue,  shriller  than  all  the  music, 
Cry,  Caesar.     Speak  ;  Caesar  is  turn'd  to  hear. 

SOOTHSAYER. 

Beware  the  ides  of  March. 


JULIUS    CJESA.R. 
CESAR. 

What  man  is  that? 

ANTONY. 

A  soothsayer  bids  you  beware  the  ides  of  March. 

CAESAR. 
Set  him  before  me ;  let  me  see  his  face. 

ANTONY. 
Fellow,  come  from  the  throng ;  look  upon  Caesar. 

CESAR. 
What  say'st  thou  to  me  now  ?     Speak  once  again. 

SOOTHSAYER. 

Beware  the  ides  of  March. 

CESAR. 
He  is  a  dreamer ;  let  us  leave  him  :  —  pass. 

[ March,     Exeunt  all.     Enter  BRUTUS  and  CASSIUS. 

CASSIUS. 
Will  you  go  see  the  order  of  the' course? 

BRUTUS. 
Not  I. 

CASSIUS. 

I  pray  you,  do. 

BRUTUS. 

I  am  not  gamesome  ;  I  do  lack  some  part 
Of  that  quick  spirit  that  is  in  Antony. 
Let  me  not  hinder,  Cassius,  your  desires ; 
I'll  leave  you. 

CASSIUS. 

Brutus,  I  do  observe  you  now  of  late : 
I  have  not  from  your  eyes  that  gentleness 
And  show  of  love  as  I  was  wont  to  have  ; 
You  bear  too  stubborn  and  too  strange  a  hand 
Over  your  friend  that  loves  you. 


IO  JULIUS   (LESAR. 

BRUTUS. 

Cassius, 

Be  not  deceiv'd  ;  if  I  have  veil'd  my  look, 
I  turn  the  trouble  of  my  countenance 
Merely  upon  myself.     Vexed  I  am 
Of  late  with  passions  of  some  difference, 
Conceptions  only  proper  to  myself, 
Which  give  some  soil,  perhaps,  to  my  behaviours ; 
But  let  not  therefore  my  good  friends  be  griev'd  — 
Among  which  number,  Cassius,  be  you  one  — 
Nor  construe  any  further  my  neglect, 
Than  that  poor  Brutus,  with  himself  at  war, 
Forgets  the  shows  of  love  to  other  men. 

CASSIUS. 

Then,  Brutus,  I  have  much  mistook  your  passion ; 
By  means  whereof  this  breast  of  mine  hath  buried 
Thoughts  of  great  value,  worthy  cogitations. 
Tell  me,  good  Brutus,  can  you  see  your  face  ? 

BRUTUS. 

No,  Cassius ;  for  the  eye  sees  not  itself, 
But  by  reflection  by  some  other  things. 

CASSIUS. 

'Tis  just ; 

And  it  is  very  much  lamented,  Brutus, 
That  you  have  no  such  mirrors  as  will  turn 
Your  hidden  worthiness  into  your  eye, 
That  you  might  see  your  shadow.     I  have  heard, 
Where  many  of  the  best  respect  in  Rome, 
Except  immortal  Caesar,  speaking  of  Brutus, 
And  groaning  underneath  this  age's  yoke, 
Have  wish'd  that  noble  Brutus  had  his  eyes. 

BRUTUS. 

Into  what  dangers  would  you  lead  me,  Cassius, 
That  you  would  have  me  seek  into  myself 
For  that  which  is  not  in  me  ? 


JULIUS    CAESAR.  II 

CASSIUS. 

Therefore,  good  Brutus,  be  prepar'd  to  hear ; 

And,  since  you  know  you  cannot  see  yourself 

So  well  as  by  reflection,  I  your  glass 

Will  modestly  discover  to  yourself 

That  of  yourself  which  you  yet  know  not  of. 

And  be  not  jealous  on  me,  gentle  Brutus  : 

Were  I  a  common  laugher,  or  did  use 

To  stale  with  ordinary  oaths  my  love 

To  every  new  protester ;  if  you  know 

That  I  do  fawn  on  men,  and  hug  them  hard, 

And  after  scandal  them  ;  or  if  you  know 

That  I  profess  myself  in  banqueting 

To  all  the  rout,  then  hold  me  dangerous.  [Shout. 

BRUTUS. 

What  means  this  shouting?     I  do  fear,  the  people 
Choose  Caesar  for  their  king. 

CASSIUS. 

Ay,  do  you  fear  it  ? 
Then  must  I  think  you  would  not  have  it  so. 

BRUTUS. 

I  would  not,  Cassius,  yet  I  love  him  well.  — 
But  wherefore  do  you  hold  me  here  so  long? 
What  is  it  that  you  would  impart  to  me  ? 
If  it  be  aught  toward  the  general  good, 
Set  honour  in  one  eye,  and  death  i'  the  other, 
And  I  will  look  on  both  indifferently; 
For  let  the  gods  so  speed  me  as  I  love 
The  name  of  honour  more  than  I  fear  death. 

CASSIUS. 

I  know  that  virtue  to  be  in  you,  Brutus, 
As  well  as  I  do  know  your  outward  favour. 
Well,  honour  is  the  subject  of  my  story.  — 


12  JULIUS    CAESAR. 

I  cannot  tell  what  you  and  other  men 

Think  of  this  life,  but,  for  my  single  self, 

I  had  as  lief  not  be  as  live  to  be 

In  awe  of  such  a  thing  as  I  myself. 

I  was  born  free  as  Csesar,  so  were  you ; 

We  both  have  fed  as  well,  and  we  can  both 

Endure  the  winter's  cold  as  well  as  he. 

For  once,  upon  a  raw  and  gusty  day, 

The  troubled  Tiber  chafing  with  her  shores, 

Caesar  said  to  me,  "  Dar'st  thou,  Cassius,  now 

Leap  in  with  me  into  this  angry  flood, 

And  swim  to  yonder  point? "     Upon  the  word, 

Accoutred  as  I  was,  I  plunged  in, 

And  bade  him  follow ;  so,  indeed,  he  did. 

The  torrent  roar'd,  and  we  did  buffet  it 

With  lusty  sinews,  throwing  it  aside, 

And  stemming  it  with  hearts  of  controversy. 

But  ere  we  could  arrive  the  point  propos'd, 

Caesar  cried,  "  Help  me,  Cassius,  or  I  sink." 

I,  as  ^Eneas,  our  great  ancestor, 

Did  from  the  flames  of  Troy  upon  his  shoulder 

The  old  Anchises  bear,  so  from  the  waves  of  Tiber 

Did  I  the  tired  Csesar.     And  this  man 

Is  now  become  a  god  ;  and  Cassius  is 

A  wretched  creature,  and  must  bend  his  body 

If  Caesar  carelessly  but  nod  on  him. 

He  had  a  fever  when  he  was  in  Spain, 

And  when  the  fit  was  on  him  I  did  mark 

How  he  did  shake  :  'tis  true,  this  god  did  shake  ; 

His  coward  lips  did  from  their  colour  fly, 

And  that  same  eye  whose  bend  doth  awe  the  world 

Did  lose  his  lustre.     I  did  hear  him  groan ; 

Ay,  and  that  tongue  of  his,  that  bade  the  Romans 

Mark  him  and  write  his  speeches  in  their  books, 

Alas  !  it  cried,  "  Give  me  some  drink,  Titinius," 

As  a  sick  girl.     Ye  gods,  it  doth  amaze  me, 

A  man  of  such  a  feeble  temper  should 

So  get  the  start  of  the  majestic  world, 

And  bear  the  palm  alone.  \_Shout. 


JULIUS   C^SAR.  13 

BRUTUS. 

Another  general  shout ! 

I  do  believe  that  these  applauses  are 

For  some  new  honours  that  are  heap'd  on  Caesar. 

CASSIUS. 

Why,  man,  he  doth  bestride  the  narrow  world 
Like  a  Colossus,  and  we  petty  men 
Walk  under  his  huge  legs  and  peep  about 
To  find  ourselves  dishonourable  graves. 
Men  at  some  time  are  masters  of  their  fates ; 
The  fault,  dear  Brutus,  is  not  in  our  stars, 
But  in  ourselves,  that  we  are  underlings. 
Brutus  and  Caesar :  what  should  be  in  that  Caesar? 
Why  should  that  name  be  sounded  more  than  yours  ? 
Write  them  together,  yours  is  as  fair  a  name ; 
Sound  them,  it  doth  become  the  mouth  as  well ; 
Weigh  them,  it  is  as  heavy ;  conjure  with  'em, 
"  Brutus  "  will  start  a  spirit  as  soon  as  "  Caesar."         [Shout. 
Now,  in  the  names  of  all  the  gods  at  once, 
Upon  what  meat  doth  this  our  Caesar  feed, 
That  he  is  grown  so  great  ?     Age,  thou  art  sham'd  ! 
Rome,  thou  hast  lost  the  breed  of  noble  bloods  ! 
When  went  there  by  an  age,  since  the  great  flood, 
But  it  was  fam'd  with  more  than  with  one  man  ? 
When  could  they  say  till  now  that  talk'd  of  Rome 
That  her  wide  walls  encompass'd  but  one  man? 
Now  it  is  Rome  indeed,  and  room  enough, 
When  there  is  in  it  but  one  only  man. 
O,  you  and  I  have  heard  our  fathers  say, 
There  was  a  Brutus  once  that  would  have  brook'd 
The  eternal  devil  to  keep  his  state  in  Rome 
As  easily  as  a  king  ! 

BRUTUS. 

That  you  do  love  me,  I  am  nothing  jealous ; 
What  you  would  work  me  to,  I  have  some  aim ; 
How  I  have  thought  of  this,  and  of  these  times, 
I  shall  recount  hereafter ;  for  this  present, 
I  would  not,  so  with  love  I  might  entreat  you, 


14  JULIUS   CJESAJt. 

Be  any  further  mov'd.     What  you  have  said, 
I  will  consider ;  what  you  have  to  say, 
I  will  with  patience  hear,  and  find  a  time 
Both  meet  to  hear  and  answer  such  high  things. 

[March.     Shouts  nearer. 
The  games  are  done,  and  Caesar  is  returning. 

CASSIUS. 

As  they  pass  by,  pluck  Casca  by  the  sleeve ; 
And  he  will,  after  his  sour  fashion,  tell  you 
What  hath  proceeded  worthy  note  to-day. 

BRUTUS. 

I  will  do  so.  —  But,  look  you,  Cassius, 
The  angry  spot  doth  glow  on  Caesar's  brow, 
And  all  the  rest  look  like  a  chidden  train. 

CASSIUS. 

Casca  will  tell  us  what  the  matter  is. 

[March.     Procession  returns  L. 

CVESAR. 

Antonius  ! 

ANTONY. 

Csesar  ? 

CESAR. 

Let  me  have  men  about  me  that  are  fat, 
Sleek-headed  men,  and  such  as  sleep  o'  nights : 
Yond  Cassius  has  a  lean  and  hungry  look ; 
He  thinks  too  much  :  such  men  are  dangerous. 

ANTONY. 

Fear  him  not,  Caesar ;  he's  not  dangerous. 
He  is  a  noble  Roman  and  well  given. 

CESAR. 

Would  he  were  fatter  !  —  But  I  fear  him  not. 
Yet  if  my  name  were  liable  to  fear, 


JULIUS    C^SAR.  15 

I  do  not  know  the  man  I  should  avoid 

So  soon  as  that  spare  Cassius.     He  reads  much ; 

He  is  a  great  observer,  and  he  looks 

Quite  through  the  deeds  of  men  :  he  loves  no  plays, 

As  thou  dost,  Antony  ;  he  hears  no  music  : 

Seldom  he  smiles,  and  smiles  in  such  a  sort, 

As  if  he  mock'd  himself,  and  scorn'd  his  spirit 

That  could  be  mov'd  to  smile  at  any  thing. 

Such  men  as  he  be  never  at  heart's  ease 

Whiles  they  behold  a  greater  than  themselves, 

And  therefore  are  they  very  dangerous. 

I  rather  tell  thee  what  is  to  be  fear'd 

Than  what  I  fear ;  for  always  I  am  Caesar. 

Come  on  my  right  hand,  for  this  ear  is  deaf, 

And  tell  me  truly  what  thou  think'st  of  him. 

[March.     Exeunt  Cxshx.  and  his  train.     CASCA  remains. 

CASCA. 
You  pull'd  me  by  the  cloak ;  would  you  speak  with  me  ? 

BRUTUS. 

Ay,  Casca ;  tell  me  what  hath  chanc'd  to-day, 
That  Caesar  looks  so  sad. 

CASCA. 
Why,  you  were  with  him,  were  you  not? 

BRUTUS. 
I  should  not  then  ask  Casca  what  had  chanc'd. 

CASCA. 

Why,  there  was  a  crown  offered  him  ;  and,  being  offered 
him,  he  put  it  by  with  the  back  of  his  hand,  thus  ;  and  then 
the  people  fell  a-shouting. 

BRUTUS. 
What  was  the  second  noise  for  ? 


1 6  JULIUS    C^SAR. 

CASCA. 
Why,  for  that  too. 

CASSIUS. 
They  shouted  thrice  ;  what  was  the  last  cry  for? 

CASCA. 

Why,  for  that  too. 

BRUTUS. 
Was  the  crown  offered  him  thrice  ? 

CASCA. 

Ay,  marry,  was't,  and  he  put  it  by  thrice,  every  time 
gentler  than  other ;  and  at  every  putting-by  mine  honest 
neighbours  shouted. 

CASSIUS. 

Who  offer'd  him  the  crown? 

CASCA. 

Why,  Antony. 

BRUTUS. 
Tell  us  the  manner  of  it,  gentle  Casca. 

CASCA. 

I  can  as  well  be  hanged  as  tell  the  manner  of  it ;  it  was 
mere  foolery,  I  did  not  mark  it.  I  saw  Mark  Antony 
offer  him  a  crown; — yet  'twas  not  a  crown  neither,  'twas 
one  of  these  coronets  ;  —  and,  as  I  told  you,  he  put  it  by 
once ;  but,  for  all  that,  to  my  thinking,  he  would  fain  have 
had  it.  Then  he  offered  it  to  him  again  ;  then  he  put  it  by 
again ;  but,  to  my  thinking,  he  was  very  loath  to  lay  his  fin- 
gers off  it.  And  then  he  offered  it  the  third  time ;  he  put 
it  the  third  time  by ;  and  still  as  he  refused  it,  the  rabble- 
ment  shouted,  and  clapped  their  chopped  hands,  and  threw 
up  their  sweaty  nightcaps,  and  uttered  such  a  deal  of  stink- 
ing breath  because  Caesar  refused  the  crown,  that  it  had 
almost  choked  Caesar ;  for  he  swooned,  and  fell  down  at  it. 
And,  for  mine  own  part,  I  durst  not  laugh,  for  fear  of  open- 
ing my  lips  and  receiving  the  bad  air. 


JULIUS    CyESAR.  I? 

CASS1US. 

But,  soft,  I  pray  you.     What !  did  Caesar  swoon? 

CASCA. 

He  fell  down  in  the  market-place,  and  foamed  at  mouth, 
and  was  speechless. 

BRUTUS. 
Tis  very  like ;  he  hath  the  falling  sickness. 

CASSIUS. 

No,  Caesar  hath  it  not ;  but  you  and  I, 
And  honest  Casca,  we  have  the  falling  sickness. 

CASCA. 

I  know  not  what  you  mean  by  that ;  but  I  am  sure  Caesar 
fell  down.  If  the  tag-rag  people  did  not  clap  him  and  hiss 
him,  according  as  he  pleased  and  displeased  them,  as  they 
use  to  do  the  players  in  the  theatre,  I  am  no  true  man. 

BRUTUS. 

What  said  he  when  he  came  unto  himself? 

CASCA. 

Marry,  before  he  fell  down,  when  he  perceived  the  com- 
mon herd  was  glad  he  refused  the  crown,  he  plucked  me 
ope  his  doublet  and  offered  them  his  throat  to  cut.  —  An 
I  had  been  a  man  of  any  occupation,  if  I  would  not  have 
taken  him  at  a  word,  I  would  I  might  go  to  hell  among  the 
rogues.  And  so  he  fell.  When  he  came  to  himself  again, 
he  said,  if  he  had  done  or  said  any  thing  amiss,  he  desired 
their  worships  to  think  it  was  his  infirmity.  Three  or  four 
wenches,  where  I  stood,  cried,  "Alas,  good  soul!"  —  and 
forgave  him  with  all  their  hearts.  But  there's  no  heed  to 
be  taken  of  them  ;  if  Caesar  had  stabbed  their  mothers,  they 
would  have  done  no  less. 

BRUTUS. 
And  after  that  he  came  thus  sad  away  ? 


iS  JULIUS    CAESAR. 

CASCA. 

Ay. 

CASSIUS. 

Did  Cicero  say  any  thing  ? 

CASCA. 
Ay,  he  spoke  Greek. 

CASSIUS. 
To  what  effect  ? 

CASCA. 

Nay,  an  I  tell  you  that,  I'll  ne'er  look  you  i'  the  face 
again.  But  those  that  understood  him  smiled  at  one  another 
and  shook  their  heads  ;  but,  for  my  own  part,  it  was  Greek 
to  me.  Fare  you  well.  There  was  more  foolery  yet,  if  I 
could  remember  it. 

CASSIUS. 
Will  you  sup  with  me  to-night,  Casca? 

CASCA. 
No,  I  am  promised  forth. 

CASSIUS. 
Will  you  dine  with  me  to-morrow? 

CASCA. 

Ay,  if  I  be  alive,  and  your  mind  hold,  and  your  dinner 
worth  the  eating. 

CASSIUS. 
Good  ;  I  will  expect  you. 

CASCA. 
Do  so.     Farewell,  both.  \_Exit  CASCA. 

BRUTUS. 

What  a  blunt  fellow  is  this  grown  to  be  ! 
He  was  quick  mettle  when  he  went  to  school. 


JULIUS    C.ESAR.  19 

CASSIUS. 

So  is  he  now,  in  execution 

Of  any  bold  or  noble  enterprise, 

However  he  puts  on  this  tardy  form. 

This  rudeness  is  a  sauce  to  his  good  wit, 

Which  gives  men  stomach  to  digest  his  words 

With  better  appetite. 

BRUTUS. 

And  so  it  is.     For  this  time  I  will  leave  you : 
To-morrow  if  you  please  to  speak  with  me, 
I  will  come  home  to  you  ;  or,  if  you  will, 
Come  home  to  me,  and  I  will  wait  for  you. 

CASSIUS. 

I  will  do  so ;  —  till  then,  think  of  the  world.  — 

BRUTUS. 

Till  then,  my  noble  friend,  chew  upon  this  : 
Brutus  had  rather  be  a  villager 
Than  to  repute  himself  a  son  of  Rome 
Under  these  hard  conditions  as  this  time 
Is  like  to  lay  upon  us.  \_Exit  BRUTUS. 

CASSIUS. 

Well,  Brutus,  thou  art  noble  ;  yet,  I  see, 

Thy  honourable  metal  may  be  wrought 

From  that  it  is  dispos'd  :  therefore  it  is  meet 

That  noble  minds  keep  ever  with  their  likes  ; 

For  who  so  firm  that  cannot  be  seduc'd  ? 

Caesar  doth  bear  me  hard,  but  he  loves  Brutus ; 

If  I  were  Brutus  now,  and  he  were  Cassius, 

He  should  not  humour  me.     I  will  this  night, 

In  several  hands,  in  at  his  windows  throw, 

As  if  they  came  from  several  citizens, 

Writings  all  tending  to  the  great  opinion 

That  Rome  holds  of  his  name,  wherein  obscurely 

Caesar's  ambition  shall  be  glanced  at ; 

And  after  this  let  Caesar  seat  him  sure, 

For  we  will  shake  him  or  worse  days  endure. 

CURTAIN'. 


2O  JULIUS    CAESAR. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.     Rome.    Brutus's  Orchard.     Lightning. 

BRUTUS. 

What,  Lucius  !  ho  !  — 
I  cannot,  by  the  progress  of  the  stars, 
Give  guess  how  near  to  day.  —  Lucius,  I  say  !  — 
I  would  it  were  my  fault  to  sleep  so  soundly.  — 
When,  Lucius,  when  ?     Awake,  I  say  !     What,  Lucius  ! 

Enter  Lucius. 

LUCIUS. 
CalFd  you,  my  lord  ? 

BRUTUS. 

Get  me  a  taper  in  my  study,  Lucius  ; 
When  it  is  lighted,  come  and  call  me  here. 

LUCIUS. 

I  will,  my  lord.  [Exit. 

BRUTUS. 

It  must  be  by  his  death ;  and,  for  my  part, 
I  know  no  personal  cause  to  spurn  at  him, 
But  for  the  general.     He  would  be  crown'd ;  — 
How  that  might  change  his  nature,  there's  the  question. 
It  is  the  bright  day  that  brings  forth  the  adder, 
And  that  craves  wary  walking.     Crown  him  ?  —  that ;  — 
And  then,  I  grant,  we  put  a  sting  in  him, 
That  at  his  will  he  may  do  danger  with. 
The  abuse  of  greatness  is  when  it  disjoins 
Remorse  from  power ;  and,  to  speak  truth  of  Caesar, 
I  have  not  known  when  his  affections  sway'd 
More  than  his  reason.     But  'tis  a  common  proof 
That  lowliness  is  young  ambition's  ladder, 


JULIUS    CAESAR.  21 

Whereto  the  climber-upward  turns  his  face  ; 

But  when  he  once  attains  the  upmost  round 

He  then  unto  the  ladder  turns  his  back, 

Looks  in  the  clouds,  scorning  the  base  degrees 

By  which  he  did  ascend.     So  Caesar  may. 

Then,  lest  he  may,  prevent.     And,  since  the  quarrel 

Will  bear  no  colour  for  the  thing  he  is, 

Fashion  it  thus  :  that  what  he  is,  augmented, 

Would  run  to  these  and  these  extremities ; 

And  therefore  think  him  as  a  serpent's  egg, 

Which  hatch 'd  would,  as  his  kind,  grow  mischievous, 

And  kill  him  in  the  shell. 

Enter  Lucius. 

LUCIUS. 

The  taper  burneth  in  your  closet,  sir. 

Searching  the  window  for  a  flint,  I  found 

This  paper  thus  seal'd  up,  and,  I  am  sure, 

It  did  not  lie  there  when  I  went  to  bed.    [  Gives  him  the  letter. 

BRUTUS. 

Get  you  to  bed  again ;  it  is  not  day. 
Is  not  to-morrow,  boy,  the  ides  of  March? 

LUCIUS. 
I  know  not,  sir. 

BRUTUS. 
Look  in  the  calendar,  and  bring  me  word.  [Exit  Lucius. 

BRUTUS. 

The  exhalations  whizzing  in  the  air 
Give  so  much  light  that  I  may  read  by  them. 

[  Opens  the  letter,  and  reads. 
"Brutus,  thou  sleep1  st ;  awake,  and  see  thyself. 
Shall  Rome,  etc.     Speak,  strike,  redress  /"  — 
"  Brutus,  thou  sleep'st ;  awake  !  " 
Such  instigations  have  been  often  dropp'd 
Where  I  have  took  them  up. 


22  JULIUS   CAESAR. 

"  Shall  Rome,  etc."     Thus  must  I  piece  it  out  : 

Shall  Rome  stand  under  one  man's  awe  ?     What !  Rome  ? 

My  ancestors  did  from  the  streets  of  Rome 

The  Tarquin  drive,  when  he  was  call'd  a  king. 

"  Speak,  strike,  redress  !  "     Am  I  entreated 

To  speak  and  strike  ?     O  Rome  !  I  make  thee  promise, 

If  the  redress  will  follow,  thou  receivest 

Thy  full  petition  at  the  hand  of  Brutus. 

Enter  Lucius. 

LUCIUS. 

Sir,  -March  is  wasted  fifteen  days.  [Knocking  within. 

BRUTUS. 

'Tis  good.     Go  to  the  gate  ;  somebody  knocks.  — 

\_Exit  Lucius. 

Since  Cassius  first  did  whet  me  against  Caesar 
I  have  not  slept. 

Between  the  acting  of  a  dreadful  thing 
And  the  first  motion,  all  the  interim  is 
Like  a  phantasma  or  a  hideous  dream ; 
The  genius  and  the  mortal  instruments 
Are  then  in  council,  and  the  state  of  man, 
Like  to  a  little  kingdom,  suffers  then 
The  nature  of  an  insurrection. 

Enter  Lucius. 

LUCIUS. 

Sir,  'tis  your  brother  Cassius  at  the  door, 
Who  doth  desire  to  see  you. 

BRUTUS. 

Is  he  alone? 

LUCIUS. 

No,  sir ;  there  are  more  with  him. 

BRUTUS. 
Do  you  know  them  ? 


JULIUS    CAESAR.  23 

LUCIUS. 

No,  sir ;  their  hats  are  pluck'd  about  their  ears, 
And  half  their  faces  buried  in  their  cloaks, 
That  by  no  means  I  may  discover  them 
By  any  mark  of  favour. 

BRUTUS. 

Let  'em  enter.  [Exit  Lucius. 

They  are  the  faction.     O  Conspiracy  ! 
Sham'st  thou  to  show  thy  dangerous  brow  by  night, 
When  evils  are  most  free?     O,  then,  by  day 
Where  wilt  thou  find  a  cavern  dark  enough 
To  mask  thy  monstrous  visage  ?     Seek  none,  Conspiracy ; 
Hide  it  in  smiles  and  affability ; 
For,  if  thou  path,  thy  native  semblance  on, 
Not  Erebus  itself  were  dim  enough 
To  hide  thee  from  prevention. 

Enter  CASSIUS,  CASCA,  DECIUS,  CINNA,  METELLUS  CIMBER, 
and  TREBONIUS. 

CASSIUS. 

I  think  we  are  too  bold  upon  your  rest : 
Good  morrow,  Brutus ;  do  we  trouble  you  ? 

BRUTUS. 

I  have  been  up  this  hour,  awake  all  night. 
Know  I  these  men  that  come  along  with  you  ? 

CASSIUS. 

Yes,  every  man  of  them ;  and  no  man  here 
But  honours  you  ;  and  every  one  doth  wish 
You  had  but  that  opinion  of  yourself 
Which  every  noble  Roman  bears  of  you. 
This  is  Trebonius. 

BRUTUS. 
He  is  welcome  hither. 

CASSIUS. 
This,  Decius. 


24  JULIUS    CLESAK. 

BRUTUS. 

He  is  welcome  too. 

CASSIUS. 
This,  Casca ;  this,  Cinna ;  and  this,  Metellus  Cimber. 

BRUTUS. 

They  are  all  welcome.  — 
What  watchful  cares  do  interpose  themselves 
Bet\vixt  your  eyes  and  night? 

CASSIUS. 

Shall  I  entreat  a  word?  [They  whisper. 

DECIUS. 

Here  lies  the  east ;  doth  not  the  day  break  here  ? 

CASCA. 

No. 

TREBONIUS. 

O,  pardon,  sir,  it  doth,  and  yon  grey  lines 
That  fret  the  clouds  are  messengers  of  day. 

CASCA. 

You  shall  confess  that  you  are  both  deceiv'd. 
Here,  as  I  point  my  sword,  the  sun  arises ; 
Which  is  a  great  way  growing  on  the  south, 
Weighing  the  youthful  season  of  the  year. 
Some  two  months  hence  up  higher  toward  the  north 
He  first  presents  his  fire,  and  the  high  east 
Stands  as  the  Capitol,  directly  here. 

BRUTUS. 
Give  me  your  hands  all  over,  one  by  one. 

CASSIUS. 
And  let  us  swear  our  resolution. 


JULIUS   CAESAR. 
BRUTUS. 

No,  not  an  oath  !     If  not  the  face  of  men, 

The  sufferance  of  our  souls,  the  time's  abuse,  — 

If  these  be  motives  weak,  break  off  betimes, 

And  every  man  hence  to  his  idle  bed ; 

So  let  high-sighted  tyranny  range  on, 

Till  each  man  drop  by  lottery.     But  if  these, 

As  I  am  sure  they  do,  bear  fire  enough 

To  kindle  cowards,  and  to  steel  with  valour 

The  melting  spirits  of  women,  then,  countrymen, 

What  need  we  any  spur  but  our  own  cause 

To  prick  us  to  redress?  what  other  bond 

Than  secret  Romans  that  have  spoke  the  word, 

And  will  not  palter?  and  what  other  oath 

Than  honesty  to  honesty  engag'd 

That  this  shall  be,  or  we  will  fall  for  it  ? 

Unto  bad  causes  swear 

Such  creatures  as  men  doubt ;  but  do  not  stain 

The  even  virtue  of  our  enterprise, 

Nor  the  insuppressive  metal  of  our  spirits, 

To  think  that  or  our  cause  or  our  performance 

Did  need  an  oath,  when  every  drop  of  blood, 

That  every  Roman  bears,  and  nobly  bears, 

Is  guilty  of  a  several  bastardy 

If  he  do  break  the  smallest  particle 

Of  any  promise  that  hath  pass'd  from  him. 

CASSIUS. 

But  what  of  Cicero  ?     Shall  we  sound  him  ? 
I  think  he  will  stand  very  strong  with  us.  ' 

METELLUS. 

Let  us  not  leave  him  out. 

CINNA. 

No,  by  no  means. 

TREBONIUS. 

O,  let  us  have  him,  for  his  silver  hairs 

Will  purchase  us  a  good  opinion, 

And  buy  men's  voices  to  commend  our  deeds. 


26  JULIUS   CAESAR. 

BRUTUS. 

O,  name  him  not ;  let  us  not  break  with  him, 
For  he  will  never  follow  any  thing 
That  other  men  begin. 

CASSIUS. 

Then  leave  him  out. 

CASCA. 
Indeed,  he  is  not  fit. 

DECIUS. 

Shall  no  man  else  be  touch'd  but  only  Caesar? 

CASSIUS. 

Decius,  well  urg'd.  —  I  think  it  is  not  meet 
Mark  Antony,  so  well  belov'd  of  Caesar, 
Should  outlive  Caesar.     We  shall  find  of  him 
A  shrewd  contriver,  and  you  know  his  means, 
If  he  improve  them,  may  well  stretch  so  far 
As  to  annoy  us  all ;  which  to  prevent, 
Let  Antony  and  Caesar  fall  together. 

BRUTUS. 

Our  course  will  seem  too  bloody,  Caius  Cassius, 
To  cut  the  head  off  and  then  hack  the  limbs, 
Like  wrath  in  death,  and  envy  afterwards  ; 
For  Antony  is  but  a  limb  of  Caesar. 
Let  us  be  sacrificers,  but  not  butchers,  Caius. 
We  all  stand  up  against  the  spirit  of  Caesar, 
And  in  the  spirit  of  men  there  is  no  blood  ; 
O,  that  we  then  could  come  by  Caesar's  spirit, 
And  not  dismember  Caesar  !     But,  alas, 
Caesar  must  bleed  for  it !     And,  gentle  friends, 
Let's  kill  him  boldly,  but  not  wrathfully ; 
Let's  carve  him  as  a  dish  fit  for  the  gods, 
Not  hew  him  as  a  carcass  fit  for  hounds. 
And  for  Mark  Antony,  think  not  of  him ; 
For  he  can  do  no  more  than  Caesar's  arm 
When  Caesar's  head  is  off. 


JULIUS    C^SAR.  27 

CASSIUS. 

Yet  I  fear  him, 
For  in  the  ingrafted  love  he  bears  to  Caesar  — 

CASCA. 

There  is  no  fear  in  him  ;  let  him  not  die  ; 
For  he  will  live  and  laugh  at  this  hereafter. 

\_Clock  strikes  three. 

BRUTUS. 

Peace  !  count  the  clock. 

CASSIUS. 
The  clock  hath  stricken  three. 

TREBONIUS. 

'Tis  time  to  part. 

CASSIUS. 

But  it  is  doubtful  yet 

Whether  Caesar  will  come  forth  to-day  or  no ; 
For  he  is  superstitious  grown  of  late, 
Quite  from  the  main  opinion  he  held  once 
Of  fantasy,  of  dreams,  and  ceremonies. 
It  may  be,  these  apparent  prodigies, 
The  unaccustom'd  terror  of  this  night, 
And  the  persuasion  of  his  augurers 
May  hold  him  from  the  Capitol  to-day. 

DECIUS. 

Never  fear  that.     If  he  be  so  resolv'd, 
I  can  o'ersway  him  ;  for  he  loves  to  hear 
That  unicorns  may  be  betray'd  with  trees, 
Lions  with  toils,  and  men  with  flatterers : 
But,  when  I  tell  him  he  hates  flatterers. 
He  says  he  does,  being  then  most  flattered. 
Let  me  work ; 

For  I  can  give  his  humour  the  true  bent, 
And  I  will  bring  him  to  the  Capitol. 


28  JULIUS    C^SAR. 

CASSIUS. 

Nay,  we  will  all  of  us  be  there  to  fetch  him. 

BRUTUS. 
By  the  eighth  hour ;  is  that  the  uttermost  ? 

CASCA. 
Be  that  the  uttermost,  and  fail  not  then. 

TREBONIUS. 

Caius  Ligarius  doth  bear  Caesar  hard, 

Who  rated  him  for  speaking  well  of  Pompey ; 

I  wonder  none  of  you  have  thought  of  him. 

BRUTUS. 

Now,  good  Trebonius,  go  along  by  him  : 

He  loves  me  well,  and  I  have  given  him  reasons ; 

Send  him  but  hither,  and  I'll  fashion  him. 

CASSIUS. 

The  morning  comes  upon  's ;  we'll  leave  you,  Brutus.  — 
And,  friends,  disperse  yourselves ;  but  all  remember 
What  you  have  said,  and  show  yourselves  true  Romans. 

BRUTUS. 

Good  gentlemen,  look  fresh  and  merrily. 
Let  not  our  looks  put  on  our  purposes  ; 
But  bear  it  as  our  Roman  actors  do, 
With  untir'd  spirits  and  formal  constancy  : 
And  so,  good  morrow  to  you  every  one.  — 

\_Exeunt  all  but  BRUTUS 

Enter  PORTIA. 

PORTIA. 
Brutus,  my  lord  ! 

BRUTUS. 

Portia,  what  mean  you?    W'herefore  rise  you  now? 
It  is  not  for  your  health  thus  to  commit 
Vour  weak  condition  to  the  raw  cold  morning. 


JULIUS    CLESAR.  29 

PORTIA. 

Nor  for  yours  neither.     You've  ungently,  Brutus, 

Stole  from  my  bed ;  and  yesternight,  at  supper, 

You  suddenly  arose  and  walk'd  about, 

Musing  and  sighing,  with  your  arms  across ; 

And,  when  I  ask'd  you  what  the  matter  was, 

You  star'd  upon  me  with  ungentle  looks, 

And  with  an  angry  wafture  of  your  hand 

Gave  sign  for  me  to  leave  you.     So  I  did ; 

Fearing  to  strengthen  that  impatience 

Which  seemed  too  much  enkindled.     Dear  my  lord, 

Make  me  acquainted  with  your  cause  of  grief. 

BRUTUS. 

I  am  not  well  in  health,  and  that  is  all. 

PORTIA. 

Brutus  is  wise,  and,  were  he  not  in  health, 
He  would  embrace  the  means  to  come  by  it. 

BRUTUS. 

Why,  so  I  do.  —  Good  Portia,  go  to  bed. 

PORTIA. 

Is  Brutus  sick? 

And  will  he  steal  out  of  his  wholesome  bed, 
To  dare  the  vile  contagion  of  the  night, 
And  tempt  the  rheumy  and  unpurged  air 
To  add  unto  his  sickness  ?     No,  my  Brutus  ; 
You  have  some  sick  offence  within  your  mind, 
Which  by  the  right  and  virtue  of  my  place 
I  ought  to  know  of:  and,  upon  my  knees, 
I  charm  you,  by  my  once  commended  beauty, 
By  all  your  vows  of  love  and  that  great  vow, 
Which  did  incorporate  and  make  us  one, 
That  you  unfold  to  me,  yourself,  your  half, 
Why  you  are  heavy,  and  what  men  to-night 
Have  had  resort  to  you ;  for  here  have  been 
Some  six  or  seven,  who  did  hide  their  faces 
Even  from  darkness. 


3O  JULIUS    C/ESAR. 

BRUTUS. 
Kneel  not,  gentle  Portia. 

PORTIA. 

I  should  not  need,  if  you  were  gentle  Brutus. 
Within  the  bond  of  marriage,  tell  me,  Brutus, 
Is  it  excepted  I  should  know  no  secrets 
That  appertain  to  you?     Am  I  yourself 
But,  as  it  were,  in  sort  or  limitation, 
To  keep  with  you  at  meals,  comfort  your  bed, 
And  talk  to  you  sometimes  ?     Dwell  I  but  in  the  suburbs 
Of  your  good  pleasure  ?     If  it  be  no  more, 
Portia  is  Brutus'  harlot,  not  his  wife. 

BRUTUS. 

You  are  my  true  and  honourable  wife, 
As  dear  to  me  as  are  the  ruddy  drops 
That  visit  my  sad  heart. 

PORTIA. 

If  this  were  true,  then  should  I  know  this  secret. 
I  grant  I  am  a  woman,  but  withal 
A  woman  that  Lord  Brutus  took  to  wife ; 
I  grant  I  am  a  woman,  but  withal 
A  woman  well  reputed,  Cato's  daughter. 
Think  you  I  am  no  stronger  than  my  sex, 
Being  so  father'd  and  so  husbanded? 
Tell  me  your  counsels,  I  will  not  disclose  'em  : 
I  have  made  strong  proof  of  my  constancy, 
Giving  myself  a  voluntary  wound 
Here  in  the  thigh ;  can  I  bear  that  with  patience, 
And  not  my  husband's  secrets  ? 

BRUTUS. 

O  ye  gods, 
Render  me  worthy  of  this  noble  wife  !  — 

[Knocking  within. 

Hark,  hark  !  one  knocks.     Portia,  go  in  a  while  ; 
And  by  and  by  thy  bosom  shall  partake 
The  secrets  of  my  heart. 


JULIUS   C^SAR.  31 

All  my  engagements  I  will  construe  to  thee, 

All  the  charactery  of  my  sad  brows. 

Leave  me  with  haste.  —  [Exit  PORTIA. 


SCENE  II.     A  Room  in  Ctzsar's  Palace. 
Enter 


CESAR. 

Nor  heaven  nor  earth  have  been  at  peace  to-night  ; 

Thrice  hath  Calpurnia  in  her  sleep  cried  out, 

"  Help,  ho  !  they  murther  Caesar  !  "  —  Who's  within? 

Enter  FLAVIUS. 

FLAVIUS. 

My  lord? 

CAESAR. 

Go  bid  the  priests  do  present  sacrifice, 
And  bring  me  their  opinions  of  success. 

FLAVIUS. 

I  will,  my  lord.  [Exit. 

Enter  CALPURNIA. 

CALPURNIA. 

What  mean  you,  Caesar?    Think  you  to  walk  forth? 
You  shall  not  stir  out  of  your  house  to-day. 

CESAR. 

Caesar  shall  forth.     The  things  that  threaten'd  me 
Ne'er  look'd  but  on  my  back  ;  when  they  shall  see 
The  face  of  Caesar,  they  are  vanished. 

CALPURNIA. 

Caesar,  I  never  stood  on  ceremonies, 
Yet  now  they  fright  me.     There  is  one  within, 
Besides  the  things  that  we  have  heard  and  seen, 
Recounts  most  horrid  sights  seen  by  the  watch. 


32  JULIUS    CAESAR. 

The  graves  have  yawn'd  and  yielded  up  their  dead ; 

Fierce  fiery  warriors  fought  upon  the  clouds, 

Which  drizzled  blood  upon  the  Capitol ; 

The  noise  of  battle  hurtled  in  the  air, 

And  ghosts  did  shriek  and  gibber  in  the  streets. 

O  Caesar  !  these  things  are  beyond  all  use, 

And  I  do  fear  them. 

CESAR. 

What  can  be  avoided, 

Whose  end  is  purpos'd  by  the  mighty  gods  ? 
Cowards  die  many  times  before  their  deaths ; 
The  valiant  never  taste  of  death  but  once. 
Of  all  the  wonders  that  I  yet  have  heard, 
It  seems  to  me  most  strange  that  men  should  fear, 
Seeing  that  death,  a  necessary  end, 
Will  come  when  it  will  come.  — 

Enter  FLAVIUS. 
What  say  the  augurers  ? 

FLAVIUS. 

They  would  not  have  you  to  stir  forth  to-day. 
Plucking  the  entrails  of  an  offering  forth, 
They  could  not  find  a  heart  within  the  beast.  \_Exit. 

CESAR. 

The  gods  do  this  in  shame  of  cowardice ; 
Caesar  should  be  a  beast  without  a  heart, 
If  he  should  stay  at  home  to-day  for  fear. 
And  Caesar  shall  go  forth. 

CALPURNIA. 

Alas  !  my  lord, 

Your  wisdom  is  consum'd  in  confidence. 
Do  not  go  forth  to-day.     Call  it  my  fear 
That  keeps  you  in  the  house,  and  not  your  own. 
We'll  send  Mark  Antony  to  the  senate-house, 
And  he  shall  say  you  are  not  well  to-day ; 
Let  me,  upon  my  knee,  prevail  in  this. 


JULIUS    CAESAR.  33 

CESAR. 

Mark  Antony  shall  say  I  am  not  well, 
And,  for  thy  humour,  I  will  stay  at  home. 

Enter  DECIUS. 
Here's  Decius  Brutus,  he  shall  tell  them  so. 

DECIUS. 

Caesar,  all  hail !     Good  morrow,  worthy  Caesar ; 
I  come  to  fetch  you  to  the  senate-house. 

CESAR. 

And  you  are  come  in  very  happy  time 
To  bear  my  greeting  to  the  senators, 
And  tell  them  that  I  will  not  come  to-day. 
Cannot  is  false ;  and  that  I  dare  not,  falser ; 
I  will  not  come  to-day.     Tell  them  so,  Decius. 

CALPURNIA. 
Say,  he  is  sick. 

CESAR. 

Shall  Caesar  send  a  lie  ? 

Have  I  in  conquest  stretch'd  mine  arm  so  far, 
To  be  afeard  to  tell  greybeards  the  truth  ?  — 
Decius,  go  tell  them  Caesar  will  not  come. 

DECIUS. 

Most  mighty  Caesar,  let  me  know  some  cause, 
Lest  I  be  laugh'd  at  when  I  tell  them  so. 

CESAR. 

The  cause  is  in  my  will ;  I  will  not  come  : 
That  is  enough  to  satisfy  the  senate. 
But,  for  your  private  satisfaction, 
Because  I  love  you,  I  will  let  you  know. 
Calpurnia  here,  my  wife,  stays  me  at  home. 
She  dream'd  to-night  she  saw  my  statua, 
Which,  like  a  fountain  with  an  hundred  spouts, 
Did  run  pure  blood,  and  many  lusty  Romans 


34  JULIUS    C^SAR. 

Came  smiling  and  did  bathe  their  hands  in  it ; 
And  these  does  she  apply  for  warnings  and  portents 
And  evils  imminent,  and  on  her  knee 
Hath  begg'd  that  I  will  stay  at  home  to-day. 

DECIUS. 

This  dream  is  all  amiss  interpreted ; 
It  was  a  vision  fair  and  fortunate. 
Your  statue  spouting  blood  in  many  pipes, 
In  which  so  many  smiling  Romans  bath'd, 
Signifies  that  from  you  great  Rome  shall  suck 
Reviving  blood,  and  that  great  men  shall  press 
To  you  for  tinctures,  stains,  and  cognizance. 
This  by  Calpurnia's  dream  is  signified. 

CAESAR. 
And  this  way  have  you  well  expounded  it. 

DECIUS. 

I  have,  when  you  have  heard  what  I  can  say ; 
And  know  it  now.     The  senate  have  concluded 
To  give  this  day  a  crown  to  mighty  Csesar. 
If  you  shall  send  them  word  you  will  not  come, 
Their  minds  may  change.     Besides,  it  were  a  mock 
Apt  to  be  render'd,  for  some  one  to  say, 
"  Break  up  the  senate  till  another  time, 
When  Caesar's  wife  shall  meet  with  better  dreams." 
If  Csesar  hide  himself,  shall  they  not  whisper, 
"  Lo,  Csesar  is  afraid  "  ? 
Pardon  me,  Cassar,  for  my  dear,  dear  love 
To  your  proceeding  bids  me  tell  you  this, 
And  reason  to  my  love  is  liable. 

CESAR. 

How  foolish  do  your  fears  seem  now,  Calpurnia  ! 
I  am  ashamed  I  did  yield  to  them. 

Enter  PUBLIUS  CASCA  and  BRUTUS. 
And  look  where  other  friends  are  come  to  fetch  me. 


JULIUS    CAESAR.  35 

CASCA.  . 

Good  morrow,  Caesar. 

CESAR. 

Welcome,  Publius  Casca. 
What,  Brutus,  are  you  stirr'd  so  early  too?  — 
I  thank  you  for  your  pains  and  courtesy. 

Enter  ANTONY. 

See  !  Antony,  that  revels  long  o'  nights, 

Is  notwithstanding  up.  —  Good  morrow,  Antony. 

ANTONY. 

So  to  most  noble  Caesar. 

CESAR. 

Bid  them  prepare  within.  — 
I  am  to  blame  to  be  thus  waited  for. 

Enter  CINNA,  METELLUS,  and  TREBONIUS. 

Now  Cinna.     Now  Metellus.     What  !  Trebonius? 
I  have  an  hour's  talk  in  store  for  you  : 
Be  near  me,  that  I  may  remember  you. 

TREBONIUS. 

Csesar,  I  will.     \_Aside~\  And  so  near  will  I  be, 
That  your  best  friends  shall  wish  I  had  been  further. 


Good  friends,  go  in  and  taste  some  wine  with  me  ; 

And  we  like  friends  will  straightway  go  together.      \_Exeunt. 

BRUTUS. 

That  every  like  is  not  the  same,  O  Caesar, 
The  heart  of  Brutus  yearns  to  think  upon. 

CURTAIN. 


36  JULIUS   CAESAR. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE.     The  Capitol;  the  Senate  sitting.     Flourish. 

A  crowd  of  Citizens;  OESAR,  BRUTUS,  CASSIUS,  CASCA, 
DECIUS,  METELLUS,  TREBONIUS,  CINNA,  ANTONY,  POPILIUS, 
PUBLIUS,  and  others  discovered. 

SOOTHSAYER. 

Hail,  Caesar ! 

OESAR. 

The  ides  of  March  are  come. 

SOOTHSAYER. 

Ay,  Caesar ;  but  not  gone. 

Hail,  Caesar  !     Read  this  schedule. 

DECIUS. 

Trebonius  doth  desire  you  to  o'er-read, 
At  ycur  best  leisure,  this  his  humble  suit. 

SOOTHSAYER. 

O,  Caesar,  read  mine  first ;  for  mine's  a  suit 

That  touches  Caesar  nearer.     Read  it,  great  Caesar. 

OESAR. 
What  touches  us  ourself  shall  be  last  serv'd. 

SOOTHSAYER. 

Delay  not,  Caesar ;  read  it  instantly. 

CESAR. 
What !  is  the  fellow  mad? 

DECIUS. 
Sirrah,  give  place.  [Exit  Soothsayer. 


JULIUS    CAESAR.  37 

Enter  POPILIUS  LENAS. 

POPILIUS. 
I  wish  your  enterprise  to-day  may  thrive. 

CASSIUS. 
What  enterprise,  Popilius? 

POPILIUS. 
Fare  you  well.  \_Advances  to  CESAR. 

BRUTUS. 
What  said  Popilius  Lena? 

CASSIUS. 

He  wished  to-day  our  enterprise  might  thrive. 
I  fear  our  purpose  is  discovered. 

BRUTUS. 
Look,  how  he  makes  to  Caesar ;  mark  him. 

CASSIUS. 

Casca,  be  sudden,  for  we  fear  prevention.  — 
Brutus,  what  shall  be  done?     If  this  be  known, 
Cassius  or  Caesar  never  shall  turn  back, 
For  I  will  slay  myself. 

BRUTUS. 

Cassius,  be  constant : 

Popilius  Lena  speaks  not  of  our  purposes ; 
For,  look,  he  smiles,  and  Caesar  doth  not  change. 

CASSIUS. 

Trebonius  knows  his  time  ;  for,  look  you,  Brutus, 
He  draws  Mark  Antony  out  of  the  way. 

\Exeunt  ANTONY  and  TREBONIUS. 


38  JULIUS   C^SAR. 

DECIUS. 

Where  is  Metellus  Cimber?     Let  him  go 
And  presently  prefer  his  suit  to  Caesar. 

BRUTUS. 

He  is  address'd ;  press  near  and  second  him. 

CINNA. 
Casca,  you  are  the  first  that  rears  your  hahd. 

CASCA. 
Are  we  all  ready  ? 

CAESAR. 

What  is  now  amiss 

That  Caesar  and  his  senate  must  redress? 

METELLUS. 

Most  high,  most  mighty,  and  most  puissant  Caesar, 

Metellus  Cimber  throws  before  thy  seat 

An  humble  heart.  —  \Kneettng. 

CESAR. 

I  must  prevent  thee,  Cimber. 
These  couchings  and  these  lowly  courtesies 
Might  fire  the  blood  of  ordinary  men, 
And  turn  pre-ordinance  and  first  decree 
Into  the  law  of  children.     Be  not  fond, 
To  think  that  Caesar  bears  such  rebel  blood 
That  will  be  thaw'd  from  the  true  quality 
With  that  which  melteth  fools,  —  I  mean  sweet  words, 
Low-crooked  curtsies,  and  base  spaniel  fawning. 
Thy  brother  by  decree  is  banished  ; 
If  thou  dost  bend  and  pray  and  fawn  for  him, 
I  spurn  thee  like  a  cur  out  of  my  way. 
Know,  Csesar  doth  not  wrong,  nor  without  cause 
Will  he  be  satisfied. 

METELLUS. 

Is  there  no  voice  more  worthy  than  my  own, 
To  sound  more  sweetly  in  great  Caesar's  ear 
For  the  repealing  of  my  banish'rl  brother? 


JULIUS    C/ESAR.  39 

BRUTUS. 

I  kiss  thy  hand,  but  not  in  flattery,  Caesar, 
Desiring  thee  that  Publius  Cimber  may 
Have  an  immediate  freedom  of  repeal. 

CESAR. 

What,  Brutus  ! 

CASSIUS. 

Pardon,  Caesar  ;  Caesar,  pardon  : 
As  low  as  to  thy  foot  doth  Cassius  .fall, 
To  beg  enfranchisement  for  Publius  Cimber. 

CESAR. 

I  could  be  well  mov'd  if  I  were  as  you  ; 
If  I  could  pray  to  move,  prayers  would  move  me  : 
But  I  am  constant  as  the  northern  star, 
Of  whose  true-fix'd  and  resting  quality 
There  is  no  fellow  in  the  firmament. 
The  skies  are  painted  with  unnumber'd  sparks ; 
They  are  all  fire,  and  every  one  doth  shine ; 
But  there's  but  one  in  all  doth  hold  his  place. 
So,  in  the  world  ;  'tis  furnish'd  well  with  men, 
And  men  are  flesh  and  blood,  and  apprehensive ; 
Yet,  in  the  number,  I  do  know  but  one 
That  unassailable  holds  on  his  rank, 
Unshak'd  of  motion  :  and  that  I  am  he, 
Let  me  a  little  show  it,  even  in  this,  — 
That  I  was  constant  Cimber  should  be  banish'd, 
And  constant  do  remain  to  keep  him  so. 

CINNA. 
O  Caesar  !  — 

CESAR. 

Hence  !  wilt  thou  lift  up  Olympus? 

DECIUS. 
Great  Caesar,  — 

CESAR. 
Doth  not  Brutus  bootless  kneel? 


4O  JULIUS    CAESAR. 

CASCA. 

Speak,  hands,  for  me. 

[CASCA  stabs  C/ESAR  in  the  neck.  CAESAR  catches  hold 
of  his  arm.  He  is  then  stabbed  by  several  other 
conspirators,  and  at  last  by  MARCUS  BRUTUS. 

OESAR. 

Et  tu,  Brute  !  —  Then,  fall,  Caesar.  [Dies. 

BRUTUS. 

Liberty  !     Freedom  !     Tyranny  is  dead  !  — 

CASSIUS. 

Run  hence,  proclaim,  cry  it  about  the  streets  : 
"  Liberty,  freedom,  and  enfranchisement !  " 

\The  Senators  and  People  retire  in  confusion. 

BRUTUS. 

People,  and  senators  !  be  not  affrighted ; 
Fly  not ;  stand  still :  —  ambition's  debt  is  paid. 
There  is  no  harm  intended  to  your  person, 
Nor  to  no  Roman  else  ;  so  tell  them,  Lenas, 
And  let  no  man  abide  this  deed,  but  we 
The  doers. 

Enter  TREBONIUS. 

CASSIUS. 
Where  is  Antony? 

TREBONIUS. 

Fled  to  his  house  amaz'd. 

Men,  wives,  and  children  stare,  cry  out,  and  run, 

As  it  were  doomsday. 

BRUTUS. 

Fates  !  we  will  know  your  pleasures  : 
That  we  shall  die,  we  know  ;  'tis  but  the  time, 
And  drawing  days  out,  that  men  stand  upon, 


JULIUS    (LESAR.  41 


CASSIUS. 


Why,  he  that  cuts  off  twenty  years  of  life 
Cuts  off  so  many  years  of  fearing  death. 


BRUTUS. 

Grant  that,  and  then  is  death  a  benefit. 

On,  Romans,  on  !     With  hands  and  sword  besmeared 

In  Caesar's  blood, 

Thus  walk  we  forth,  even  to  the  market-place, 

And,  waving  our  red  weapons  o'er  our  heads, 

Let's  all  cry,  Peace  !  Freedom  !  and  Liberty  ! 

CASSIUS. 

How  many  ages  hence 

Shall  this  our  lofty  scene  be  acted  over 

In  states  unborn  and  accents  yet  unknown  ! 

BRUTUS. 

How  many  times  shall  Caesar  bleed  in  sport, 
That  now  on  Pompey's  basis  lies  along 
No  worthier  than  the  dust ! 


CASSIUS. 

So  oft  as  that  shall  be, 
So  often  shall  the  knot  of  us  be  call'd 
The  men  that  gave  their  country  liberty. 


CASCA. 
What !  shall  we  forth  ? 

CASSIUS. 

Aye,  every  man  away ; 

Brutus  shall  lead,  and  we  will  grace  his  heels 
With  the  most  boldest  and  best  hearts  of  Rome. 


42  JULIUS    CAESAR. 

Enter  SERVIUS. 

BRUTUS. 
Soft,  who  comes  here  ?    A  friend  of  Antony's. 

SERVIUS. 

Thus,  Brutus,  did  my  master  bid  me  kneel ; 
Thus  did  Mark  Antony  bid  me  fall  down ; 
And,  being  prostrate,  thus  he  bade  me  say  : 
Brutus  is  noble,  wise,  valiant,  and  honest ; 
Caesar  was  mighty,  bold,  royal,  and  loving. 
Say  I  love  Brutus  and  I  honour  him ; 
Say  I  fear'd  Caesar,  honour'd  him,  and  lov'd  him. 
If  Brutus  will  vouchsafe  that  Antony 
May  safely  come  to  him  and  be  resolv'd 
How  Caesar  hath  deserv'd  to  lie  in  death, 
Mark  Antony  shall  not  love  Caesar  dead 
So  well  as  Brutus  living,  but  will  follow 
The  fortunes  and  affairs  of  noble  Brutus 
Thorough  the  hazards  of  this  untrod  state 
With  all  true  faith.     So  says  my  master  Antony. 

BRUTUS. 

Thy  master  is  a  wise  and  valiant  Roman ; 
I  never  thought  him  worse. 
Tell  him,  so  please  him  come  unto  this  place, 
He  shall  be  satisfied  and,  by  my  honour, 
Depart  untouch'd. 

SERVIUS. 
I'll  fetch  him  presently.  \_Exit  servant. 

BRUTUS. 
I  know  that  we  shall  have  him  well  to  friend. 

CASSIUS. 

I  wish  we  may  ;  but  yet  have  I  a  mind 
That  fears  him  much. 


JULIUS   CAESAR.  43 

Enter  ANTONY. 

BRUTUS. 
But  here  comes  Antony.  —  Welcome,  Mark  Antony. 

ANTONY. 

0  mighty  Caesar  !     Dost  thou  lie  so  low? 

Are  all  thy  conquests,  glories,  triumphs,  spoils, 
Shrunk  to  this  little  measure  ?     Fare  thee  well.  — 

1  know  not,  gentlemen,  what  you  intend, 
Who  else  must  be  let  blood,  who  else  is  rank ; 
If  I  myself,  there  is  no  hour  so  fit 

As  Caesar's  death's  hour,  nor  no  instrument 

Of  half  that  worth  as  those  your  swords,  made  rich 

With  the  most  noble  blood  of  all  this  world. 

I  do  beseech  ye,  if  you  bear  me  hard, 

Now,  whilst  your  purpled  hands  do  reek  and  smoke, 

Fulfil  your  pleasure.     Live  a  thousand  years, 

I  shall  not  find  myself  so  apt  to  die ; 

No  place  will  please  me  so,  no  mean  of  death, 

As  here  by  Caesar  and  by  you  cut  off, 

The  choice  and  master  spirits  of  this  age. 

BRUTUS. 

O  Antony  !  beg  not  your  death  of  us. 
Though  now  we  must  appear  bloody  and  cruel, 
As,  by  our  hands  and  this  our  present  act, 
You  see  we  do,  yet  see  you  but  our  hands. 
Our  hearts  you  see  not :  they  are  pitiful ; 
And  pity  to  the  general  wrong  of  Rome 
Hath  done  this  deed  on  Caesar.     For  your  part, 
To  you  our  swords  have  leaden  points,  Mark  Antony ; 
And  our  heart, 

Of  brothers'  temper,  do  receive  you  in, 
With  all  kind  love,  good  thoughts,  and  reverence. 

CASSIUS. 

Your  voice  shall  be  as  strong  as  any  man's, 
In  the  disposing  of  new  dignities. 


44  JULIUS    C.-ESAR. 

BRUTUS. 

Only  be  patient,  till  we  have  appeas'd 
The  multitude,  beside  themselves  with  fear, 
And  then  we  will  deliver  you  the  cause 
Why  I,  that  did  love  Caesar  when  I  struck  him, 
Have  thus  proceeded. 

ANTONY. 

I  doubt  not  of  your  wisdom. 
Let  each  man  render  me  his  bloody  hand  : 
First,  Marcus  Brutus,  will  I  shake  with  you ;  — 
Next,  Caius  Cassius,  do  I  take  your  hand ;  — 
Now,  Decius  Brutus,  yours  ;  —  now  yours,  Metellus  ;  — 
Yours,  Cinna ;  —  and,  my  valiant  Casca,  yours  ;  — 
Though  last,  not  least  in  love,  yours,  good  Trebonius. 
Gentlemen  all,  —  alas  !  what  shall  I  say  ? 
My  credit  now  stands  on  such  slippery  ground, 
That  one  of  two  bad  ways  you  must  conceit  me, 
Either  a  coward  or  a  flatterer.  — 
That  I  did  love  thee,  Caesar,  O,  'tis  true  ! 
If  then  thy  spirit  look  upon  us  now, 
Shall  it  not  grieve  thee  dearer  than  thy  death, 
To  see  thy  Antony  making  his  peace, 
Shaking  the  bloody  fingers  of  thy  foes, 
Most  noble  !  in  the  presence  of  thy  corse  ? 
Had  I  as  many  eyes  as  thou  hast  wounds, 
Weeping  as  fast  as  they  stream  forth  thy  blood, 
It  would  become  me  better  than  to  close 
In  terms  of  friendship  with  thine  enemies. 
Pardon  me,  Julius  !  —  Here  wast  thou  bay'd,  brave  hart ; 
Here  didst  thou  fall,  and  here  thy  hunters  stand, 
Sign'd  in  thy  spoil  and  crimson'd  in  thy  death. 

CASSIUS. 
Mark  Antony,  — 

ANTONY. 

Pardon  me,  Caius  Cassius  : 

The  enemies  of  Caesar  shall  say  this ; 

Then,  in  a  friend,  it  is  cold  modesty. 


JULIUS   CAESAR.  45 


CASSIUS. 


I  blame  you  not  for  praising  Caesar  so ; 
But  what  compact  mean  you  to  have  with  us  ? 
Will  you  be  prick'd  in  number  of  our  friends ; 
Or  shall  we  on,  and  not  depend  on  you  ? 


ANTONY. 


Therefore  I  took  your  hands,  but  was  indeed 
Sway'd  from  the  point,  by  looking  down  on  Caesar. 
Friends  am  I  with  you  all  and  love  you  all, 
Upon  this  hope,  that  you  shall  give  me  reasons 
Why  and  wherein  Caesar  was  dangerous. 


BRUTUS. 


Or  else  were  this  a  savage  spectacle. 
Our  reasons  are  so  full  of  good  regard 
That  were  you,  Antony,  the  son  of  Caesar, 
You  should  be  satisfied. 

ANTONY. 

That's  all  I  seek ; 

And  am  moreover  suitor  that  I  may 
Produce  his  body  to  the  market-place, 
And  in  the  pulpit,  as  becomes  a  friend, 
Speak  in  the  order  of  his  funeral. 

BRUTUS. 
You  shall,  Mark  Antony. 

CASSIUS. 

Brutus,  a  word  with  you.  — 

\_Aside\  You  know  not  what  you  do.     Do  not  consent 
That  Antony  speak  in  his  funeral. 
Know  you  how  much  the  people  may  be  mov'd 
By  that  which  he  will  utter  ? 


46  JULIUS   CJESAR. 

BRUTUS. 

By  your  pardon ;  - 
I  will  myself  into  the  pulpit  first, 
And  show  the  reason  of  our  Caesar's  death ; 
What  Antony  shall  speak,  I  will  protest 
He  speaks  by  leave  and  by  permission, 
And  that  we  are  contented  Caesar  shall 
Have  all  true  rites  and  lawful  ceremonies. 
It  shall  advantage  more  than  do  us  wrong. 

CASSIUS. 
I  know  not  what  may  fall ;  I  like  it  not. 

BRUTUS. 

Mark  Antony,  here,  take  you  Caesar's  body. 
You  shall  not  in  your  funeral  speech  blame  us, 
But  speak  all  good  you  can  devise  of  Caesar, 
And  say  you  do  't  by  our  permission ; 
Else  shall  you  not  have  any  hand  at  all 
About  his  funeral.     And  you  shall  speak 
In  the  same  pulpit  whereto  I  am  going, 
After  my  speech  is  ended. 


I  do  desire  no  more. 


ANTONY. 
Be  it  so ; 


BRUTUS. 

Prepare  the  body  then,  and  follow  us. 

\Exeunt  all  but  ANTONY. 

ANTONY 

O,  pardon  me,  thou  bleeding  piece  of  earth. 
That  I  am  meek  and  gentle  with  these  butchers  ! 
Thou  art  the  nuns  of  the  noblest  man 
That  ever  lived  in  the  tide  of  times. 
Woe  to  the  hands  that  shed  this  costly  blood  ! 
Over  thy  wounds  now  do  I  prophesy, 


JULIUS    (LESAR.  47 

Which  like  dumb  mouths  do  ope  their  ruby  lips 
To  beg  the  voice  and  utterance  of  my  tongue  : 
A  curse  shall  light  upon  the  limbs  of  men ; 
Domestic  fury  and  fierce  civil  strife 
Shall  cumber  all  the  parts  of  Italy  ; 
Blood  and  destruction  shall  be  so  in  use, 
And  dreadful  objects  so  familiar, 
That  mothers  shall  but  smile  when  they  behold 
Their  infants  quarter'd  with  the  hands  of  war, 
All  pity  chok'd  with  custom  of  fell  deeds ; 
And  Caesar's  spirit  ranging  for  revenge, 
With  Ate  by  his  side  come  hot  from  hell, 
Shall  in  these  confines  with  a  monarch's  voice 
Cry  "  Havoc  !  "  and  let  slip  the  dogs  of  war ; 
That  this  foul  deed  shall  smell  above  the  earth 
With  carrion  men  groaning  for  burial. 

QUICK    CURTAIN. 


48  JULIUS   CAESAR. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE.    Rome.     The  Forum.    A  Throng  of  Plebians. 
BRUTUS  and  Crowd  of  Citizens  discovered. 

CITIZENS. 
We  will  be  satisfied !    We  will  be  satisfied ! 

BRUTUS. 

Be  patient  till  the  last. 

CITIZENS. 
We  will  be  satisfied !    We  will  be  satisfied ! 

[BRUTUS  ascends  the  pulpit. 

FIRST   CITIZEN. 

The  noble  Brutus  is  ascended.    Silence ! 

BRUTUS. 

Romans,  countrymen,  and  lovers  !  hear  me  for  my  cause, 
and  be  silent,  that  you  may  hear ;  believe  me  for  mine  hon- 
our, and  have  respect  to  mine  honour,  that  you  may  believe  ; 
censure  me  in  your  wisdom,  and  awake  your  senses,  that 
you  may  the  better  judge.  If  there  be  any  in  this  assembly, 
any  dear  friend  of  Caesar's,  to  him  I  say  that  Brutus'  love  to 
Caesar  was  no  less  than  his.  If  then  that  friend  demand 
why  Brutus  rose  against  Caesar,  this  is  my  answer,  —  Not 
that  I  loved  Caesar  less,  but  that  I  loved  Rome  more.  Had 
you  rather  Caesar  were  living,  and  die  all  slaves,  than  that 
Caesar  were  dead,  to  live  all  freemen  ?  As  Caesar  loved  me, 
I  weep  for  him ;  as  he  was  fortunate,  I  rejoice  at  it ;  as  he 
was  valiant,  I  honour  him  ;  but  as  he  was  ambitious,  I  slew 
him.  There  is  tears  for  his  love,  joy  for  his  fortune,  honour 
for  his  valour,  and  death  for  his  ambition.  Who  is  here  so 
base  that  would  be  a  bondman?  If  any,  speak,  for  him 


JULIUS    CAESAR.  49 

have  I  offended.  Who  is  here  so  rude  that  would  not  be 
a  Roman  ?  If  any,  speak,  for  him  have  I  offended.  Who 
is  here  so  vile  that  will  not  love  his  country  ?  If  any,  speak, 
for  him  have  I  offended.  I  pause  for  a  reply. 

ALL. 
None,  Brutus,  none. 

BRUTUS. 

Then  none  have  I  offended.  I  have  done  no  more  to 
Caesar  than  you  shall  do  to  Brutus.  The  question  of  his 
death  is  enrolled  in  the  Capitol ;  his  glory  not  extenuated, 
wherein  he  was  worthy,  nor  his  offences  enforced,  for  which 
he  suffered  death.  \_March. 

ALL. 
Brutus  !     Brutus  !     Brutus  ! 

FIRST   CITIZEN. 

Bring  him  with  triumph  home  unto  his  house ; 
Give  him  a  statue  to  his  ancestors. 

SECOND   CITIZEN 

Let  him  be  Caesar  ! 

ALL. 

Brutus  !  Brutus  !  Brutus  ! 

BRUTUS. 

Here  comes  Caesar's  body,  mourned  by  Mark  Antony ; 

Good  countrymen,  let  me  depart  alone. 

I  do  entreat  no  man  of  you  to  stir, 

But  for  my  sake  stay  here  with  Antony : 

Do  grace  to  Caesar's  corpse,  and  grace  his  speech 

Tending  to  Caesar's  glories,  which  Mark  Antony, 

By  our  permission,  is  allowed  to  make. 

ALL. 

Live,  Brutus  !  live  !  live  1 


5O  JULIUS    CAESAR. 

FIRST    CITIZEN. 

Give  him  a  statue  with  his  ancestors. 

SECOND   CITIZEN. 

Let  him  be  Caesar  ! 

BRUTUS. 

With  this  I  depart,  —  that  as  I  slew 
My  best  lover  for  the  good  of  Rome, 
I  have  the  same  dagger  for  myself 
When  it  shall  please  my  country  to  need 
My  death.  \_Exit  BRUTUS. 

ALL. 
Live,  Brutus  !  live  !  live  ! 

\_Ente r  guards,  bearing  CAESAR'S  body,  ANTONY,  SERVIUS, 
and  others. 

FIRST  CITIZEN. 

Stay,  ho  !  and  let  us  hear  Mark  Antony. 

ANTONY. 

For  Brutus'  sake,  I  am  beholding  to  you. 

SECOND   CITIZEN. 

What  does  he  say  of  Brutus? 

FIRST   CITIZEN. 

He  says,  for  Brutus'  sake,  he  finds  himself  beholding  to  us 
all. 

THIRD   CITIZEN. 

'Twere  best  he  speak  no  harm  of  Brutus  here. 

[ANTONY  ascends  pulpit. 

SECOND    CITIZEN. 

This  Caesar  was  a  tyrant. 

THIRD   CITIZEN. 

Nay,  that's  certain ; 
We  are  blest  that  Rome  is  rid  of  him. 


JULIUS    CAESAR.  51 

SECOND   CITIZEN. 

Peace,  let  us  hear  what  Antony  can  say. 

ANTONY. 

You  gentle  Romans,  — 

ALL. 
Peace,  ho  !  let  us  hear  him. 

ANTONY. 

Friends,  Romans,  countrymen,  lend  me  your  ears ; 

I  come  to  bury  Caesar,  not  to  praise  him. 

The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them, 

The  good  is  oft  interred  with  their  bones ; 

So  let  it  be  with  Caesar.     The  noble  Brutus 

Hath  told  you  Caesar  was  ambitious  ; 

If  it  were  so,  it  was  a  grievous  fault, 

And  grievously  hath  Caesar  answer'd  it. 

Here,  under  leave  of  Brutus  and  the  rest,  — 

For  Brutus  is  an  honourable  man, 

So  are  they  all,  all  honourable  men,  — 

Come  I  to  speak  in  Caesar's  funeral. 

He  was  my  friend,  faithful  and  just  to  me  : 

But  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious ; 

And  Brutus  is  an  honourable  man. 

He  hath  brought  many  captives  home  to  Rome, 

Whose  ransom  did  the  general  coffers  fill ; 

Did  this  in  Caesar  seem  ambitious  ? 

When  that  the  poor  have  cried,  Caesar  hath  wept ; 

Ambition  should  be  made  of  sterner  stuff. 

Yet  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious  ; 

And  Brutus  is  an  honourable  man. 

You  all  did  see  that  on  the  Lupercal 

I  thrice  presented  him  a  kingly  crown, 

Which  he  did  thrice  refuse.     Was  this  ambition  ? 

Yet  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious ; 

And,  sure,  he  is  an  honourable  man. 

I  speak  not  to  disprove  what  Brutus  spoke, 

But  here  I  am  to  speak  what  I  do  know. 


52  JULIUS    C/ESAR. 

You  all  did  love  him  once,  not  without  cause ; 
What  cause  withholds  you  then  to  mourn  for  him? 

0  judgment,  thoii  art  fled  to  brutish  beasts, 

And  men  have  lost  their  reason  !  —  Bear  with  me ; 
My  heart  is  in  the  coffin  there  with  Caesar, 
And  I  must  pause  till  it  come  back  to  me. 

FIRST   CITIZEN. 

Methinks  there  is  much  reason  in  his  sayings.     If  thou 
consider  rightly  of  the  matter,  Caesar  has  had  great  wrong. 

THIRD   CITIZEN. 

Has  he,  masters? 

1  fear  there  will  a  worse  come  in  his  place. 

SECOND   CITIZEN. 

Mark'd  ye  his  words  ?     He  would  not  take  the  crown ; 
Therefore  'tis  certain  he  was  not  ambitious. 

FIRST   CITIZEN. 

If  it  be  found  so,  some  will  dear  abide  it. 

SECOND   CITIZEN. 

Poor  soul !  his  eyes  are  red  as  fire  with  weeping. 

THIRD   CITIZEN. 

There's  not  a  nobler  man  in  Rome  than  Antony. 

FOURTH   CITIZEN. 

Now  mark  him,  he  begins  again  to  speak. 

ANTONY. 

But  yesterday  the  word  of  Caesar  might 

Have  stood  against  the  world  ;  now  lies  he  there, 

And  none  so  poor  to  do  him  reverence. 

O  masters  !  if  I  were  dispos'd  to  stir 

Your  hearts  and  minds  to  mutiny  and  rage, 


JULIUS    C.'ESAR.  53 

I  should  do  Brutus  wrong  and  Cassius  wrong, 

Who,  you  all  know,  are  honourable  men. 

I  will  not  do  them  wrong  ;  I  rather  choose 

To  wrong  the  dead,  to  wrong  myself  and  you, 

Than  I  will  wrong  such  honourable  men. 

But  here's  a  parchment,  with  the  seal  of  Caesar ; 

I  found  it  in  his  closet ;  'tis  his  will. 

Let  but  the  commons  hear  this  testament  — 

Which,  pardon  me,  I  do  not  mean  to  read  — 

And  they  would  go  and  kiss  dead  Caesar's  wounds, 

And  dip  their  napkins  in  his  sacred  blood, 

Yea,  beg  a  hair  of  him  for  memory, 

And,  dying,  mention  it  within  their  wills, 

Bequeathing  it  as  a  rich  legacy 

Unto  their  issue. 

FOURTH    CITIZEN. 

We'll  hear  the  will.     Read  it,  Mark  Antony. 

ALL. 
The  will,  the  will  !  we  will  hear  Caesar's  will. 

ANTONY. 

Have  patience,  gentle  friends,  I  must  not  read  it ; 
It  is  not  meet  you  know  how  Caesar  lov'd  you. 
You  are  not  wood,  you  are  not  stones,  but  men ; 
And,  being  men,  hearing  the  will  of  Caesar, 
It  will  inflame  you,  it  will  make  you  mad. 
Tis  good  you  know  not  that  you  are  his  heirs ; 
For  if  you  should,  O,  what  would  come  of  it? 

FOURTH   CITIZEN. 

Read  the  will !  we'll  hear  it,  Antony  ! 
You  shall  read  us  the  will !  Caesar's  will ! 

- 

ANTONY. 

Will  you  be  patient  ?     Will  you  stay  awhile  ? 

I  have  o'ershot  myself,  to  tell  you  of  it. 

I  fear  I  wrong  the  honourable  men 

Whose  daggers  have  stabb'd  Caesar ;  I  do  fear  it. 


54  JULIUS    CAESAR. 

FOURTH   CITIZEN. 

They  were  traitors  !      Honourable  men  ! 

ALL. 
The  will !  the  testament ! 

SECOND    CITIZEN. 

They  were  villains,  murtherers  !     The  will !     Read  the  will ! 

ANTONY. 

You  will  compel  me,  then,  to  read  the  will? 
Then  make  a  ring  about  the  corpse  of  Caesar, 
And  let  me  show  you  him  that  made  the  will. 
Shall  I  descend  ?    And  will  you  give  me  leave  ? 

ALL. 
Come  down. 

SECOND   CITIZEN. 

Descend.  \_He  comes  doivnfrom  the  pulpit. 

THIRD   CITIZEN. 

You  shall  have  leave. 

FOURTH   CITIZEN. 

A  ring  ;  stand  round. 

FIRST   CITIZEN. 

Stand  from  the  hearse,  stand  from  the  body. 

SECOND   CITIZEN. 

Room  for  Antony  !  —  most  noble  Antony  ! 

ANTONY. 

Nay,  press  not  so  upon  me ;  stand  far  off. 

ALL. 

Stand  back  !  room  !  bear  back  ! 


JULIUS    CJESAR.  55 

ANTONY. 

If  you  have  tears,  prepare  to  shed  them  now. 

You  all  do  know  this  mantle  :  I  remember 

The  first  time  ever  Caesar  put  it  on  ; 

'Twas  on  a  summer's  evening,  in  his  tent, 

That  day  he  overcame  the  Nervii. 

Look  !  in  this  place  ran  Cassius'  dagger  through ; 

See  what  a  rent  the  envious  Casca  made ; 

Through  this  the  well-beloved  Brutus  stabb'd ; 

And  as  he  pluck'd  his  cursed  steel  away, 

Mark  how  the  blood  of  Caesar  follow'd  it, 

As  rushing  out  of  doors,  to  be  resolv'd 

If  Brutus  so  unkindly  knock'd,  or  no ; 

For  Brutus,  as  you  know,  was  Caesar's  angel : 

Judge,  O  you  gods,  how  dearly  Caesar  lov'd  him  ! 

This  was  the  most  unkindest  cut  of  all ; 

For,  when  the  noble  Csesar  saw  him  stab, 

Ingratitude,  more  strong  than  traitors'  arms, 

Quite  vanquish'd  him  :  then  burst  his  mighty  heart ; 

And,  in  his  mantle  muffling  up  his  face, 

Even  at  the  base  of  Pompey's  statua, 

Which  all  the  while  ran  blood,  great  Caesar  fell. 

O,  what  a  fall  was  there,  my  countrymen  ! 

Then  I,  and  you,  and  all  of  us  fell  down, 

Whilst  bloody  treason  flourish'd  over  us. 

O,  now  you  weep,  and  I  perceive  you  feel 

The  dint  of  pity ;  these  are  gracious  drops. 

Kind  souls,  what !  weep  you  when  you  but  behold 

Our  Caesar's  vesture  wounded  ?     Look  you  here, 

Here  is  himself,  marr'd,  as  you  see,  with  traitors. 

FIRST   CITIZEN. 

O  piteous  spectacle  ! 

SECOND   CITIZEN. 

O  noble  Caesar ! 

THIRD   CITIZEN. 

O  woful  day  ! 


56  JULIUS   C^SAR. 

FOURTH   CITIZEN. 

O  traitors,  villains  ! 

FIRST   CITIZEN. 

0  most  bloody  sight ! 

SECOND   CITIZEN. 

We  will  be  reveng'd  ! 

ALL. 

Revenge  !     About !     Seek  !     Burn  !    Fire  !    Kill !    Slay  ! 
Let  not  a  traitor  live  ! 

ANTONY. 

Stay,  countrymen. 

FIRST   CITIZEN. 

Peace  there  !     Hear  the  noble  Antony. 

SECOND   CITIZEN. 

We'll  hear  him,  we'll  follow  him,  we'll  die  with  him. 

ANTONY. 

Good  friends,  sweet  friends,  let  me  not  stir  you  up 
To  such  a  sudden  flood  of  mutiny. 
They  that  have  done  this  deed  are  honourable. 
What  private  griefs  they  have,  alas  !  I  know  not, 
That  made  them  do  it ;  they  are  wise  and  honourable, 
And  will,  no  doubt,  with  reasons  answer  you. 

1  come  not,  friends,  to  steal  away  your  hearts  : 
I  am  no  orator,  as  Brutus  is, 

But,  as  you  know  me  all,  a  plain  blunt  man, 

That  love  my  friend ;  and  that  they  know  full  well 

That  gave  me  public  leave  to  speak  of  him. 

For  I  have  neither  wit,  nor  words,  nor  worth, 

Action,  nor  utterance,  nor  the  power  of  speech, 

To  stir  men's  blood  :  I  only  speak  right  on ; 

I  tell  you  that  which  you  yourselves  do  know, 

Show  you  sweet  Caesar's  wounds,  poor,  poor  dumb  mouths, 

And  bid  them  speak  for  me  :  but,  were  I  Brutus, 


JULIUS    (LESAR.  57 

And  Brutus  Antony,  there  were  an  Antony 
Would  ruffle  up  your  spirits,  and  put  a  tongue 
In  every  wound  of  Caesar  that  should  move 
The  stones  of  Rome  to  rise  and  mutiny. 

ALL. 
We'll  mutiny. 

FIRST   CITIZEN. 

We'll  burn  the  house  of  Brutus. 

THIRD    CITIZEN. 

Away,  then  !  come,  seek  the  conspirators. 

ANTONY. 

Yet  hear  me,  countrymen ;  yet  hear  me  speak. 

ALL. 
Peace,  ho  !     Hear  Antony,  most  noble  Antony. 

ANTONY. 

Why,  friends,  you  go  to  do  you  know  not  what. 
Wherein  hath  Caesar  thus  deserv'd  your  loves? 
Alas,  you  know  not !  —  I  must  tell  you,  then. 
You  have  forgot  the  will  I  told  you  of. 

ALL. 
Most  true ;  —  the  will !  —  let's  stay,  and  hear  the  will. 

ANTONY. 

Here  is  the  will,  and  under  Caesar's  seal. 

To  every  Roman  citizen  he  gives, 

To  every  several  man,  seventy-five  drachmas. 

SECOND    CITIZEN. 

Most  noble  Caesar  !  —  we'll  revenge  his  death. 


58  JULIUS    (LESAR. 

THIRD   CITIZEN. 

O  royal  Caesar ! 

ANTONY. 

Moreover,  he  hath  left  you  all  his  walks, 
His  private  arbours,  and  new-planted  orchards, 
On  this  side  Tiber ;  he  hath  left  them  you, 
And  to  your  heirs  forever,  common  pleasures, 
To  walk  abroad,  and  recreate  yourselves. 
Here  was  a  Caesar  !  when  comes  such  another? 

FIRST   CITIZEN. 

Never,  never  !  —  Come,  away,  away  ! 
We'll  burn  his  body  in  the  holy  place, 
And  with  the  brands  fire  the  traitors'  houses. 
Take  up  the  body. 

SECOND    CITIZEN. 

Go,  fetch  fire. 

THIRD   CITIZEN. 

Pluck  down  benches. 

FOURTH    CITIZEN. 

Pluck  down  forms,  windows,  any  thing. 

[Exeunt  Citizens. 

ANTONY. 

Now  let  it  work.     Mischief,  thou  art  afoot, 
Take  thou  what  course  thou  wilt ! 

PICTURE.      QUICK    CURTAIN. 


JULIUS    CAESAR.  59 


ACT   V. 

SCENE.  The  Tent  of  Brutus  in  the  camp  of  Sardis. 
BRUTUS,  TREBONIUS,  METELLUS,  and  Soldiers.  Lucius  at 
a  distance. 

BRUTUS. 

Trebonius,  is  Cassius  near? 

TREBONIUS. 

He  is  at  hand,  and  Pindarus  is  come 
To  do  you  salutation  from  his  master. 

\_Flourish.     PINDARUS  enters  and  gives  letter  to  BRUTUS. 

BRUTUS. 

He  greets  me  well.  —  Your  master,  Pindarus, 
In  his  own  change,  or  by  ill  officers, 
Hath  given  me  some  worthy  cause  to  wish 
Things  done  undone  ;  but  if  he  be  at  hand, 
I  shall  be  satisfied. 

PINDARUS. 

I  do  not  doubt 

But  that  my  noble  master  will  appear 

Such  as  he  is,  full  of  regard  and  honour. 

BRUTUS. 

He  is  not  doubted.     [Exit  PINDARUS.]     A  word,  Trebonius  : 
How  he  receiv'd  you,  let  me  be  resolv'd. 

TREBONIUS. 

With  courtesy,  and  with  respect  enough, 
But  not  with  such  familiar  instances, 
Nor  with  such  free  and  friendly  conference., 
As  he  hath  us'd  of  old. 


6O  JULIUS    CJESAR. 

BRUTUS. 

Thou  hast  describ'd 

A  hot  friend  cooling.     Ever  note,  Trebonius, 
When  love  begins  to  sicken  and  decay 
It  useth  an  enforced  ceremony. 
There  are  no  tricks  in  plain  and  simple  faith ; 
But  hollow  men,  like  horses  hot  at  hand, 
Make  gallant  show  and  promise  of  their  mettle, 
But  when  they  should  endure  the  bloody  spur 
They  fall  their  crests,  and  like  deceitful  jades 
Sink  in  the  trial.     Comes  his  army  on? 

TREBONIUS. 

They  mean  this  night  in  Sard  is  to  be  quarter 'd ; 
The  greater  part,  the  horse  in  general, 
Are  come  with  Cassius.  {Flourish  within. 

BRUTUS. 

Hark,  he  is  arriv'd. 

Enter  CASSIUS  and  Soldiers. 

CASSIUS. 
Stand,  ho  ! 
Most  noble  brother,  you  have  done  me  wrong. 

BRUTUS. 

Judge  me,  you  gods  !  Wrong  I  mine  enemies? 
And,  if  not  so,  how  should  I  wrong  a  brother? 

CASSIUS. 

Brutus,  this  sober  form  of  yours  hides  wrongs, 
And  when  you  do  them  — 

BRUTUS. 

Cassius,  be  content ; 

Speak  your  griefs  soitly,  —  I  do  know  you  well. 
Before  the  eyes  of  both  our  armies  here, 


JULIUS    CvESAR.  6l 

Which  should  perceive  nothing  but  love  from  us, 
Let  us  not  wrangle.     Bid  them  move  away ; 
Then  in  my  tent,  Cassius,  enlarge  your  griefs, 
And  I  will  give  you  audience. 

CASSIUS. 

Pindarus, 

Bid  our  commanders  lead  their  charges  off 
A  little  from  this  ground. 

BRUTUS. 

Lucius,  do  you  the  like  ;  and  let  no  man 
Come  to  our  tent,  till  we  have  done  our  conference. 

[Flourish.     Exeunt  all  but  BRUTUS  and  CASSIUS. 

CASSIUS. 

That  you  have  wrong'd  me  doth  appear  in  this  : 
You  have  condemn'd  and  noted  Lucius  Pella 
For  taking  bribes  here  of  the  Sardians ; 
Wherein  my  letter,  praying  on  his  side, 
Because  I  knew  the  man,  was  slighted  off. 

BRUTUS. 

You  wrong'd  yourself  to  write  in  such  a  case. 

CASSIUS. 

In  such  a  time  as  this  it  is  not  meet 
That  every  nice  offence  should  bear  his  comment. 

BRUTUS. 

Let  me  tell  you,  Cassius,  you  yourself 
Are  much  condemn'd  to  have  an  itching  palm, 
To  sell  and  mart  your  offices  for  gold 
To  undeservers. 

CASSIUS. 

I  an  itching  palm  ? 

You  know  that  you  are  Brutus  that  speaks  this, 
Or,  by  the  gods,  this  speech  were  else  your  last. 


62  JULIUS    CAESAR. 

BRUTUS. 

The  name  of  Cassius  honours  this  corruption, 
And  chastisement  doth  therefore  hide  his  head. 

CASSIUS. 
Chastisement ! 

BRUTUS. 

Remember  March,  the  ides  of  March  remember  ! 
Did  not  great  Julius  bleed  for  justice'  sake  ? 
What  villain  touch'd  his  body,  that  did  stab, 
And  not  for  justice  ?     What !  shall  one  of  us, 
That  struck  the  foremost  man  of  all  this  world 
But  for  supporting  robbers,  —  shall  we  now 
Contaminate  our  fingers  with  base  bribes, 
And  sell  the  mighty  space  of  our  large  honours 
For  so  much  trash  as  may  be  grasped  thus? 
I  had  rather  be  a  dog,  and  bay  the  moon, 
Than  such  a  Roman. 

CASSIUS. 

Brutus,  bay  not  me ; 
I'll  not  endure  it :  you  forget  yourself, 
To  hedge  me  in.     I  am  a  soldier,  I, 
Older  in  practice,  abler  than  yourself 
To  make  conditions. 

BRUTUS. 

Go  to ;  you  are  not,  Cassius. 

CASSIUS. 
I  am. 

BRUTUS. 
I  say  you  are  not. 

CASSIUS. 

Urge  me  no  more,  I  shall  forget  myself; 

Have  mind  upon  your  health,  tempt  me  no  further. 

BRUTUS. 
Away,  slight  man  ! 


JULIUS    C^SAR.  63 

CASSIUS. 

Is't  possible  ? 

BRUTUS. 

Hear  me,  for  I  will  speaX. 
Must  I  give  way  and  room  to  your  rash  choler? 
Shall  I  be  frighted  when  a  madman  stares? 

CASSIUS. 

0  ye  gods,  ye  gods  !     Must  I  endure  all  this  ? 

BRUTUS. 

All  this?     Ay,  more.     Fret  till  your  proud  heart  break ; 
Go  show  your  slaves  how  choleric  you  are, 
And  make  your  bondmen  tremble.     Must  I  budge  ? 
Must  I  observe  you?     Must  I  stand  and  crouch 
Under  your  testy  humour?     By  the  gods, 
You  shall  digest  the  venom  of  your  spleen, 
Though  it  do  split  you ;  for  from  this  day  forth 
I'll  use  you  for  my  mirth,  yea,  for  my  laughter, 
When  you  are  waspish. 

CASSIUS. 
Is  it  come  to  this? 

BRUTUS. 

You  say  you  are  a  better  soldier  : 
Let  it  appear  so ;  make  your  vaunting  true, 
And  it  shall  please  me  well.     For  mine  own  part, 

1  shall  be  glad  to  learn  of  noble  men. 

CASSIUS. 

You  wrong  me  every  way,  you  wrong  me,  Brutus ; 
I  said  an  elder  soldier,  not  a  better : 
Did  I  say  better? 

BRUTUS. 
If  you  did,  I  care  not. 

CASSIUS. 
When  Caesar  liv'd  he  durst  not  thus  have  mov'd  me. 


64  JULIUS    CJESAR. 

BRUTUS. 

Peace,  peace    you  durst  not  so  have  tempted  him. 

CASSIUS. 
I  durst  not? 

BRUTUS. 

No. 

CASSIUS. 

What  ?  durst  not  tempt  him  ? 

BRUTUS. 
For  your  life  you  durst  not. 

CASSIUS. 

Do  not  presume  too  much  upon  my  love ; 
I  may  do  that  I  shall  be  sorry  for. 

BRUTUS. 

You  have  done  that  you  should  be  sorry  for. 
There  is  no  terror,  Cassius,  in  your  threats ; 
For  I  am  arm'd  so  strong  in  honesty 
That  they  pass  by  me  as  the  idle  wind 
Which  I  respect  not.     I  did  send  to  you 
For  certain  sums  of  gold,  which  you  denied  me ;  — 
For  I  can  raise  no  money  by  vile  means  : 
By  heaven,  I  had  rather  coin  my  heart, 
And  drop  my  blood  for  drachmas,  than  to  wring 
From  the  hard  hands  of  peasants  their  vile  trash 
By  any  indirection.  —  I  did  send 
To  you  for  gold  to  pay  my  legions, 
Which  you  denied  me.     Was  that  done  like  Cassius? 
Should  I  have  ansvver'd  Caius  Cassius  so? 
When  Marcus  Brutus  grows  so  covetous, 
To  lock  such  rascal  counters  from  his  friends, 
Be  ready,  gods,  with  all  your  thunderbolts, 
Dash  him  to  pieces  ! 


JULIUS   CAESAR.  65 

CASSIUS. 

I  denied  you  not. 

BRUTUS. 
You  did. 

CASSIUS. 

1  did  not ;  he  was  but  a  fool 

That  brought  my  answer  back.  —  Brutus  hath  riv'd  my  heart ; 

A  friend  should  bear  a  friend's  infirmities, 

But  Brutus  makes  mine  greater  than  they  are. 

BRUTUS. 

I  do  not,  till  you  practise  them  on  me. 

CASSIUS. 

You  love  me  not. 

BRUTUS. 

I  do  not  like  your  faults. 

CASSIUS. 
A  friendly  eye  could  never  see  such  faults. 

BRUTUS. 

A  flatterer's  would  not,  though  they  do  appear 
As  huge  as  high  Olympus. 

CASSIUS. 

Come,  Antony,  and  young  Octavius,  come, 
Revenge  yourselves  alone  on  Cassius  ! 
For  Cassius  is  aweary  of  the  world  ; 
Hated  by  one  he  loves,  brav'd  by  his  brother, 
Check'd  like  a  bondman  ;  all  his  faults  observ'd, 
Set  in  a  note-book,  learn'd  and  conn'd  by  rote, 
To  cast  into  my  teeth.     O,  I  could  weep 
My  spirit  from  mine  eyes  !  — There  is  my  dagger, 
And  here  my  naked  breast ;  within,  a  heart 
Dearer  than  Plutus'  mine,  richer  than  gold  : 
If  that  thou  beest  a  Roman,  take  it  forth. 


66  JULIUS    CAESAR. 

I,  that  denied  thee  gold,  will  give  my  heart : 

Strike,  as  thou  didst  at  Caesar ;  for  I  know, 

When  thou  didst  hate  him  worst,  thou  lov'dst  him  better 

Than  ever  thou  lov'dst  Cassius. 


BRUTUS. 

Sheathe  your  dagger 

Be  angry  when  you  will,  it  shall  have  scope ; 
Do  what  you  will,  dishonour  shall  be  humour. 
O  Cassius,  you  are  yoked  with  a  lamb, 
That  carries  anger  as  the  flint  bears  fire, 
Who,  much  enforced,  shows  a  hasty  spark 
And  straight  is  cold  again. 

CASSIUS. 

Hath  Cassius  liv'd 

To  be  but  mirth  and  laughter  to  his  Brutus, 
When  grief  and  blood  ill-temper'd  vexeth  him  ? 

BRUTUS. 
When  I  spoke  that,  I  was  ill-temper'd  too. 

CASSIUS. 
Do  you  confess  so  much?    Give  me  your  hand. 

BRUTUS. 
And  my  heart  too. 

CASSIUS. 
O  Brutus  !  — 

BRUTUS. 

What's  the  matter? 

CASSIUS. 

Have  not  you  love  enough  to  bear  with  me, 
When  that  rash  humour  which  my  mother  gave  me 
Makes  me  forgetful? 


JULIUS   C^SAR.  67 

BRUTUS. 

Yes,  Cassius  ;  and  from  henceforth, 
When  you  are  over-earnest  with  your  Brutus, 
He'll  think  your  mother  chides,  and  leave  you  so. 

[Enter  Lucius  with  lamp, 

BRUTUS. 

Lucius, 

Bid  Metellus  and  Trebonius  hither.  \_Exit  Lucius. 

CASSIUS. 

I  did  not  think  you  could  have  been  so  angry. 

BRUTUS. 
O  Cassius,  I  am  sick  of  many  griefs  ! 

CASSIUS. 

Of  your  philosophy  you  make  no  use, 
If  you  give  place  to  accidental  evils. 

BRUTUS. 
No  man  bears  sorrow  better.  —  Portia  is  dead. 

CASSIUS. 
Ha!  Portia? 

BRUTUS. 

She  is  dead. 

CASSIUS. 

How  scap'd  I  killing,  when  I  cross'd  you  so?  — 
O  insupportable  and  touching  loss  !  — 
Upon  what  sickness? 

BRUTUS. 

Impatient  of  my  absence, 

And  grief  that  young  Octavius  with  Mark  Antony 
Have  made  themselves  so  strong ;  —  for  with  her  death 
That  tidings  came.  —  With  this  she  fell  distract, 
And,  her  attendants  absent,  swallow'd  fire. 


68  JULIUS   CJESA.R. 

CASSIUS. 

And  died  so? 

BRUTUS. 

Even  so. 

CASSIUS. 

0  ye  immortal  gods  ! 

Enter  Lucius. 

BRUTUS. 

Speak  no  more  of  her.  —  Lucius,  a  bowl  of  wine.  — 

In  this  I  bury  all  unkindness,  Cassius.  \_Drinks. 

CASSIUS. 

My  heart  is  thirsty  for  that  noble  pledge.  — 
Fill,  Lucius,  till  the  wine  o'erswell  the  cup ; 

1  cannot  drink  too  much  of  Brutus'  love.  \_Drinks. 

Enter  TREBONIUS  with  METELLUS. 

BRUTUS. 

Come  in,  Trebonius.  —  Welcome,  good  Metellus.  — 
Now  sit  we  close  about  this  taper  here, 
And  call  in  question  our  necessities. 

CASSIUS. 
Portia,  art  thou  gone  ? 

BRUTUS. 

No  more,  I  pray  you.  — 
Trebonius,  I  have  here  received  letters, 
That  young  Octavius  and  Mark  Antony 
Come  down  upon  us  with  a  mighty  power, 
Bending  their  expedition  toward  Philippi. 

TREBONIUS. 
Myself  have  letters  of  the  selfsame  tenour. 


JULIUS   CJESAR.  69 

BRUTUS. 

With  what  addition  ? 

TREBONIUS. 

That  by  proscription  and  bills  of  outlawry, 

Octavius,  Antony,  and  Lepidus 

Have  put  to  death  an  hundred  senators. 

BRUTUS. 

Therein  our  letters  do  not  well  agree  ; 
Mine  speak  of  seventy  senators  that  died 
By  their  proscriptions,  Cicero  being  one. 

CASSIUS. 
Cicero  one  ? 

TREBONIUS. 

Cicero  is  dead, 

And  by  that  order  of  proscription.  — 
Had  you  your  letters  from  your  wife,  my  lord? 

BRUTUS. 
No,  Trebonius. 

TREBONIUS. 

Nor  nothing  in  your  letters  writ  of  her  ? 

BRUTUS. 

Nothing,  Trebonius. 

TREBONIUS. 

That,  methinks,  is  strange. 

BRUTUS. 
Why  ask  you  ?     Hear  you  aught  of  her  in  yours  ? 

TREBONIUS. 

No,  my  lord. 


7O  JULIUS   C^SAR. 

BRUTUS. 
Now,  as  you  are  a  Roman,  tell  me  true. 

TREBONIUS. 

Then  like  a  Roman  bear  the  truth  I  tell ; 

For  certain  she  is  dead,  and  by  strange  manner. 

BRUTUS. 

Why,  farewell,  Portia.  —  We  must  die,  Trebonius. 
With  meditating  that  she  must  die  once, 
I  have  the  patience  to  endure  it  now. 

CASSIUS. 

Even  so  great  men  great  losses  should  endure. 
I  have  as  much  of  this  in  art  as  you, 
But  yet  my  nature  could  not  bear  it  so. 

BRUTUS. 

Well,  to  our  work  alive.     What  do  you  think 
Of  marching  to  Philippi  presently? 

CASSIUS. 
I  do  not  think  it  good. 

BRUTUS. 
Your  reason? 

CASSIUS. 

This  it  is  : 

'Tis  better  that  the  enemy  seek  us ; 
So  shall  he  waste  his  means,  weary  his  soldiers, 
Doing  himself  offence,  whilst  we  lying  still 
Are  full  of  rest,  defence,  and  nimbleness. 

BRUTUS. 

Good  reasons  mast,  of  force,  give  place  to  better. 
The  people  'twixt  Philippi  and  this  ground 
Do  stand  but  in  a  forc'd  affection, 
For  they  have  grudg'd  us  contribution. 


JULIUS    CAESAR. 

The  enemy,  marching  along  by  them, 

By  them  shall  make  a  fuller  number  up, 

Come  on  refresh'd,  new-added,  and  encourag'd ; 

From  which  advantage  shall  we  cut  him  off 

If  at  Philippi  we  do  face  him  there, 

These  people  at  our  back. 

CASSIUS. 
Hear  me,  good  brother. 

BRUTUS. 

Under  your  pardon.  —  You  must  note  beside 

That  we  have  tried  the  utmost  of  our  friends. 

Our  legions  are  brim-full,  our  cause  is  ripe  : 

The  enemy  increaseth  every  day  ; 

We,  at  the  height,  are  ready  to  decline. 

There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men, 

Which,  taken  at  the  flood,  leads  on  to  fortune; 

Omitted,  all  the  voyage  of  their  life 

Is  bound  in  shallows  and  in  miseries. 

On  such  a  full  sea  are  we  now  afloat, 

And  we  must  take  the  current  when  it  serves, 

Or  lose  our  ventures. 

CASSIUS. 

Then,  with  your  will,  go  on  ; 
We'll  along  ourselves  and  meet  them  at  Philippi. 

BRUTUS. 

The  deep  of  night  is  crept  upon  our  talk, 
And  nature  must  obey  necessity. 
Which  we  will  niggard  with  a  litde  rest. 
There  is  no  more  to  say  ? 

CASSIUS. 

No  more.    Good  night ! 
Early  to-morrow  will  we  rise  and  hence. 


72  JULIUS   CAESAR. 

BRUTUS. 

Good  night,  Trebonius  !     Noble,  noble  Cassius, 
Good  night,  and  good  repose  ! 

CASSIUS. 

O  my  dear  brother, 

This  was  an  ill  beginning  of  the  night ; 
Never  come  such  division  'tween  our  souls  ! 
Let  it  not,  Brutus. 

BRUTUS. 

Every  thing  is  well ;  Good  night ! 

CASSIUS. 
Good  night,  my  lord  ! 

BRUTUS, 
Good  night,  good  brother  ! 

TREBONIUS  and  METELLUS. 

Good  night,  my  lords  ! 

\_Exeunt  CASSIUS,  TREBONIUS,  and  METELLUS. 

BRUTUS. 

Lucius  !  Lucius  !  Lucius  !  my  book  ! 
Where  is  thy  instrument  ? 

LUCIUS. 
Here  in  the  tent. 

BRUTUS. 

What !  thou  speak'st  drowsily? 

Poor  knave,  I  blame  thee  not ;  thou  art  o'erwatched. 
Canst  thou  hold  up  thy  heavy  eyes  awhile, 
And  touch  thy  instrument  a  strain  or  two  ? 

LUCIUS. 
Ay,  my  lord,  an  't  please  you. 


JULIUS    C^SAR.  73 

BRUTUS. 

It  does,  my  boy ; 
I  trouble  thee  too  much,  but  thou  art  willing. 

LUCIUS. 
It  is  my  duty,  sir. 

BRUTUS. 

I  should  not  urge  thy  duty  past  thy  might ; 

I  know  young  bloods  look  for  a  time  of  rest. 

If  I  do  live,  I  will  be  good  to  thee.  [Song. 

This  is  a  sleepy  tune.  —  O  murtherous  slumber, 

Lay'st  thou  thy  leaden  mace  upon  my  boy, 

That  plays  thee  music  !  —  Gentle  knave,  good  night ; 

I  will  not  do  thee  so  much  wrong  to  wake  thee. 

If  thou  dost  nod,  thou  break'st  thy  instrument : 

I'll  take  it  from  thee ;  and,  good  boy,  good  night.  — 

Let  me  see,  let  me  see,  —  is  not  the  leaf  turn'd  down 

Where  I  left  reading  ?     Here  it  is,  I  think.      \_He  sits  down. 

Enter  the  Ghost  of  Caesar. 

How  ill  this  taper  burns  !  —  Ha  !  who  comes  here  ? 
I  think  it  is  the  weakness  of  my  eyes 
That  shapes  this  monstrous  apparition. 
It  comes  upon  me.  —  Art  thou  any  thing  ? 
Art  thou  some  god,  some  angel,  or  some  devil, 
That  mak'st  my  blood  cold  and  my  hair  to  stare  ? 
Speak  to  me  what  thou  art. 

GHOST. 

Thy  evil  spirit,  Brutus. 

BRUTUS. 
Why  com'st  thou? 

GHOST. 

To  tell  thee  thou  shall  see  me  at  Philippi. 

BRUTUS. 
Well ;  then  I  shall  see  thee  again  ? 


74  JULIUS    CAESAR. 

GHOST. 

Ay,  at  Philippi.  \_Ghostvanishes. 

BRUTUS. 

Why,  I  will  see  thee  ar,  Philippi  then.  — 
Now  I  have  taken  heart,  thou  vanishes!. 
Ill  spirit,  I  would  hold  more  talk  with  thee.  — 
Boy  !  Lucius  !  Trebonius  !  Metellus  !  sirs  ! 
Awake,  Trebonius  !  [Lucius  awakes. 

Enter  TREBONIUS  and  METELLUS. 

TREBONIUS  and  METELLUS. 

My  lord  ! 

BRUTUS. 

Why  did  you  so  cry  out,  sirs,  in  your  sleep  ? 

TREBONIUS   and  METELLUS. 

Did  we,  my  lord  ? 

BRUTUS. 

Ay  ;  saw  you  any  thing  ? 

TREBONIUS  and  METELLUS. 

No,  my  lord,  I  saw  nothing. 

BRUTUS. 

Go,  and  commend  me  to  my  brother  Cassius ; 
Bid  him  set  on  his  powers  betimes  before, 
And  we  will  follow. 

TREBONIUS   and  METELLUS. 

It  shall  be  done,  my  lord.  \_Exeunt. 

CURTAIN. 


JULIUS    CAESAR.  75 


ACT  VI. 

SCENE.     The  Plains  of  Philippi. 
Enter  OCTAVIUS,  ANTONY,  and  soldiers. 

OCfAVIUS. 

Now,  Antony,  our  hopes  are  answered. 
You  said  the  enemy  would  not  come  down, 
But  keep  the  hills  and  upper  regions. 
It  proves  not  so  :  their  battles  are  at  hand  ; 
They  mean  to  warn  us  at  Philippi  here, 
Answering  before  we  do  demand  of  them. 

ANTONY. 

Tut !  I  am  in  their  bosoms,  and  I  know 

Wherefore  they  do  it :  they  could  be  content 

To  visit  other  places,  and  come  down 

With  fearful  bravery,  thinking  by  this  face 

To  fasten  in  our  thoughts  that  they  have  courage ; 

But  'tis  not  so. 

Enter  SERVIUS. 

SERVIUS. 

Prepare  you,  generals : 
The  enemy  comes  on  in  gallant  show ; 
Their  bloody  sign  of  battle  is  hung  out, 
And  something  to  be  done  immediately. 

ANTONY. 

Octavius,  lead  your  battle  softly  on, 
Upon  the  left  hand  of  the  even  field. 

OCTAVIUS. 
Upon  the  right  hand  I ;  keep  thou  the  left. 


^6  JULIUS    C^ESAR. 

ANTONY. 

Why  do  you  cross  me  in  this  exigent  ? 

OCTAVIUS. 
I  do  not  cross  you ;  but  I  will  do  so.  \_March. 

Enter  BRUTUS,  CASSIUS,  and  soldiers, 

BRUTUS. 

They  stand  and  would  have  parley. 
Words  before  blows ;  is  it  so,  countrymen  ? 

OCTAVIUS. 
Not  that  we  love  words  better,  as  you  do. 

BRUTUS. 
Good  words  are  better  than  bad  strokes,  Octavius. 

ANTONY. 

In  your  bad  strokes,  Brutus,  you  give  good  words ; 
Witness  the  hole  you  made  in  Caesar's  heart, 
Crying,  "  Long  live  !     Hail,  Caesar  ! " 

CASSIUS. 

Antony, 

The  posture  of  your  blows  are  yet  unknown ; 
But  for  your  words,  they  rob  the  Hybla  bees, 
And  leave  them  honeyless. 

ANTONY. 

Not  stingless  too. 

BRUTUS. 

O,  yes,  and  soundless  too  ; 

For  you  have  stolen  their  buzzing,  Antony, 

And  very  wisely  threat  before  you  sting. 


JULIUS    CJESAR.  77 

ANTONY. 

Villains,  you  did  not  so  when  your  vile  daggers 

Hack'd  one  another  in  the  sides  of  Caesar : 

You  show'd  your  teeth  like  apes,  and  fawn'd  like  hounds, 

And  bow'd  like  bondmen,  kissing  Caesar's  feet, 

Whilst  damned  Casca,  like  a  cur,  behind, 

Struck  Caesar  on  the  neck.     O  you  flatterers  ! 

CASSIUS. 

Flatterers  !  —  Now,  Brutus,  thank  yourself ; 
This  tongue  had  not  offended  so  to-day, 
If  Cassius  might  have  rul'd. 

OCTAVIUS. 

Come,  come,  the  cause ;  if  arguing  malce  us  sweat, 

The  proof  of  it  will  turn  to  redder  drops. 

Look,  I  draw  a  sword  against  conspirators  ; 

When  think  you  that  the  sword  goes  up  again  ? 

Never,  till  Caesar's  three  and  thirty  wounds 

Be  well  aveng'd,  or  till  another  Caesar 

Have  added  slaughter  to  the  sword  of  traitors. 

BRUTUS. 

Caesar,  thou  canst  not  die  by  traitors'  hands, 
Unless  thou  bring'st  them  with  thee. 

OCTAVIUS. 

So  I  hope ; 
I  was  not  born  to  die  on  Brutus'  sword. 

BRUTUS. 

O,  if  thou  wert  the  noblest  of  thy  strain, 

Young  man,  thou  couldst  not  die  more  honourable. 

CASSIUS. 

A  peevish  schoolboy,  worthless  of  such  honour, 
Join'd  with  a  masker  and  a  reveller. 


78  JULIUS   CAESAR. 

ANTONY. 

Old  Cassius  still ! 

OCTAVIUS. 

Come,  Antony ;  away  !  — 
Defiance,  traitors,  hurl  we  in  your  teeth. 
If  you  dare  fight  to-day,  come  to  the  field ; 
If  not,  when  you  have  stomachs. 

[Exeunt  OCTAVIUS,  ANTONY,  and  soldiers. 

CASSIUS. 

Why  now,  blow  wind,  swell  billow,  and  swim  bark  ! 

The  storm  is  up,  and  all  is  on  the  hazard. 

Now,  most  noble  Brutus, 

The  gods  to-day  stand  friendly,  that  we  may, 

Lovers  in  peace,  lead  on  our  days  to  age  ! 

But  since  the  affairs  of  men  rest  still  incertain, 

Let's  reason  with  the  worst  that  may  befall. 

If  we  do  lose  this  battle,  then  is  this 

The  very  last  time  we  shall  speak  together ; 

What  are  you  then  determined  to  do  ? 

BRUfUS. 

Even  by  the  rule  of  that  philosophy 

By  which  I  did  blame  Cato  for  the  death 

Which  he  did  give  himself.     I  know  not  how, 

But  I  do  find  it  cowardly  and  vile, 

For  fear  of  what  might  fall,  so  to  prevent 

The  time  of  life,  —  arming  myself  with  patience 

To  stay  the  providence  of  some  high  powers 

That  govern  us  below. 

CASSIUS. 

Then,  if  we  lose  this  battle, 
You  are  contented  to  be  led  in  triumph 
Thorough  the  streets  of  Rome  ? 


JULIUS    CAESAR.  79 

BRUTUS. 

No,  Cassius,  no  !  think  not,  thou  noble  Roman, 
That  ever  Brutus  will  go  bound  to  Rome  ; 
He  bears  too  great  a  mind.     But  this  same  day 
Must  end  that  work  the  ides  of  March  begun ; 
And  whether  we  shall  meet  again  I  know  not. 
Therefore  our  everlasting  farewell  take  ; 
For  ever,  and  for  ever,  farewell,  Cassius  ! 
If  we  do  meet  again,  why,  we  shall  smile  ; 
If  not,  why,  then  this  parting  was  well  made. 

CASSIUS. 

For  ever,  and  for  ever,  farewell,  Brutus  ! 
If  we  do  meet  again,  we'll  smile  indeed ; 
If  not,  'tis  true,  this  parting  was  well  made. 

BRUTUS. 

Why,  then  lead  on.  —  O  that  a  man  might  know 
The  end  of  this  day's  business  ere  it  come  ! 
But  it  sufficeth  that  the  day  will  end, 
And  then  the  end  is  known.  —  Come,  ho  !  away  ! 

[Flourish.     Exeunt.     Alarums, 

Enter  CASSIUS  and  TREBONIUS. 

CASSIUS. 

O,  look,  Trebonius,  look,  the  villains  fly  ! 
Myself  have  to  mine  own  turn'd  enemy. 
This  ensign  here  of  mine  was  turning  back ; 
I  slew  the  coward,  and  did  take  it  from  him. 

TREBONIUS. 

O  Cassius,  Brutus  gave  the  word  too  early, 
Who,  having  some  advantage  on  Octavius, 
Took  it  too  eagerly ;  his  soldiers  fell  to  spoil, 
Whilst  we  by  Antony  are  all  enclos'd. 


8O  JULIUS   CAESAR. 


Enter  PINDARUS. 
PINDARUS. 


Fly  further  off,  my  lord,  fly  further  off ! 
Mark  Antony  is  in  your  tents,  rny  lord  ! 
Fly,  therefore,  noble  Cassius,  fly  far  off ! 

CASSIUS. 

This  hill  is  far  enough.  —  Look,  look,  Trebonius  ! 
Are  those  my  tents  where  I  perceive  the  fire  ? 

TREBONIUS. 

They  are,  my  lord. 

CASSIUS. 

Trebonius,  if  thou  lov'st  me, 
Mount  thou  my  horse  and  hide  thy  spurs  in  him, 
Till  he  have  brought  thee  up  to  yonder  troops 
And  here  again,  that  I  may  rest  assur'd 
Whether  yond  troops  are  friend  or  enemy. 

TREBONIUS. 

I  will  be  here  again  even  with  a  thought.  [Exit. 

CASSIUS. 

Go,  Pindarus,  get  higher  on  that  hill ; 

My  sight  was  ever  thick ;  regard  Trebonius, 

And  tell  me  what  thou  not'st  about  the  field. 

[PINDARUS  goes  up. 

This  day  I  breathed  first :  time  is  come  round, 
And  where  I  did  begin,  there  shall  I  end  ; 
My  life  is  run  his  compass.  —  Sirrah,  what  news  ? 

PINDARUS  \_above\. 
O  my  lord ! 

CASSIUS. 

What  news? 


JULIUS    C&SAR.  8l 

PINDARUS. 

Trebonius  is  enclosed  round  about 

With  horsemen  that  make  to  him  on  the  spur ;  — 

Yet  he  spurs  on.     Now  they  are  almost  on  him. 

Now,  Trebonius  !  — 

Now  some  light.  —  O,  he  lights  too.  —  He's  ta'en ;  and, 

hark! 
They  shout  for  joy.  [Shouts. 

CASSIUS. 

Come  down,  behold  no  more. 
O,  coward  that  I  am  to  live  so  long, 
To  see  my  best  friend  ta'en  before  my  face  ! 

[PINDARUS  comes  down. 
Come  hither,  sirrah  ! 
In  Parthia  did  I  take  tliee  prisoner ; 
And  then  I  swore  thee,  saving  of  thy  life, 
That  whatsoever  I  did  bid  thee  do, 
Thou  shouldst  attempt  it.     Come  now,  keep  thine  oath  ! 
Now  be  a  freeman  ;  and  with  this  good  sword, 
That  ran  through  Caesar's  bowels,  search  this  bosom. 
Stand  not  to  answer :  here,  take  thou  the  hilts  ; 
And  when  my  face  is  cover'd,  as  'tis  now, 
Guide  thou  the  sword.  —  Caesar,  thou  art  reveng'd, 
Even  with  the  sword  that  kili'd  thee.  [Dies. 

PINDARUS. 

So,  I  am  free  ;  yet  would  not  so  have  been, 
Durst  I  have  done  my  will.  —  O  Cassius  ! 
Far  from  this  country  Pindarus  shall  run, 
Where  never  Roman  shall  take  note  of  him. 

[Exit.     Alarums. 

Enter  TITINIUS  and  TREBONIUS. 

TITINIUS. 

It  is  but  change,  Trebonius ;  for  Octavius 
Is  overthrown  by  noble  Brutus'  power, 
As  Cassius'  legions  are  by  Antony. 


82  JULIUS   CAESAR. 

TREBONIUS. 

These  tidings  will  well  comfort  Cassius. 

TITINIUS. 
Where  did  you  leave  him  ? 

TREBONIUS. 

All  disconsolate, 
With  Pindarus  his  bondman,  on  this  hill. 

TITINIUS. 
Is  not  that  he  that  lies  upon  the  ground  ? 

TREBONIUS. 

He  lies  not  like  the  living.     O  my  heart ! 
Mistrust  of  my  success  hath  done  this  deed. 
What,  Pindarus  !     Where  art  thou,  Pindarus  ? 

TITIXIUS. 

Seek  him,  Trebonius,  whilst  I  go  to  bring 

The  noble  Brutus  to  this  piercing  sight.          [Exit  TITINIUS. 

TREBONIUS. 

Why  didst  thou  send  me  forth,  brave  Cassius? 

Did  I  not  meet  thy  friends?  and  did  not  they 

Put  on  my  brows  this  wreath  of  victory, 

And  bid  me  give  it  thee  ?    Didst  thou  not  hear  their  shouts  ? 

Alas  !  thou  hast  misconstrued  every  thing. 

But  hold  thee,  take  this  garland  on  thy  brow ; 

Thy  Brutus  bid  me  give  it  thee,  and  I 

Will  do  his  bidding.  \_Alarums, 

Enter  TITINIUS  with  BRUTUS. 

BRUTUS. 

Where,  where,  Titinius,  doth  his  body  lie  ? 


JULIUS    CAESAR.  83 

TITIMUS. 

Lo,  yonder,  and  Trebonius  mourning  it. 

BRUTUS. 

0  Julius  Caesar,  thou  art  mighty  yet ! 

Thy  spirit  walks  abroad,  and  turns  our  swords 

In  our  own  proper  entrails.  —  \_Low  alarums. 

Thou  last  of  all  the  Romans,  fare  thee  well  ! 

It  is  impossible  that  ever  Rome 

Should  breed  thy  fellow.  —  Friends,  I  owe  more  tears 

To  this  dead  man  than  you  shall  see  me  pay.  — 

1  shall  find  time,  Cassius,  I  shall  find  time.  — 
Come,  therefore,  and  to  Thassos  send  his  body  ; 
His  funerals  shall  not  be  in  our  camp, 

Lest  it  discomfort  us.  —  Romans,  yet  ere  night 

We  shall  try  fortune  in  a  second  fight.     [Exeunt.    A/antms. 

Enter  ANTONY,  officers  ami  soldiers,  TITINIUS  and  guards. 

OFFICER. 

Brutus  is  ta'en,  Brutus  is  ta'en,  my  lord. 

ANTONY. 

This  is  not  Brutus,  friend,  but,  I  assure  you, 

A  prize  no  less  in  worth.     Keep  this  man  safe, 

Give  him  all  kindness  ;  I  had  rather  have 

Such  men  my  friends  than  enemies.       \_Exeunt.     Alarums. 

Enter  BRUTUS  and  party. 

BRUTUS. 

Come,  poor  remains  of  friends,  let's  rest  us  here. 

Slaying  is  the  word  ;  it  is  a  deed  in  fashion. 

Hark  thee,  Metellus.  [  Whispers  him. 

METELLUS. 

What !  I,  my  lord  ?     No,  not  for  all  the  world. 


84  JULIUS   CAESAR. 

BRUTUS. 

Peace  then  !  no  words. 

METELLUS. 

I'd  rather  kill  myself. 

BRUTUS. 

Come  hither,  good  Trebonius  ;  list  a  word. 
The  ghost  of  Caesar  hath  appear'd  to  me 
Two  several  times  by  night ;  at  Sardis  once, 
And  this  last  night  here  in  Philippi  fields. 
I  know  my  hour  is  come. 

TREBONIUS. 

Not  so,  my  lord. 

BRUTUS. 

Nay,  I  am  sure  it  is,  Trebonius. 

Thou  seest  the  world,  Trebonius,  how  it  goes ; 

Our  enemies  have  beat  us  to  the  pit ; 

It  is  more  worthy  to  leap  in  ourselves 

Than  tarry  till  they  push  us.     Good  Trebonius, 

Thou  know'st  that  we  two  went  to  school  together; 

Even  for  that  our  love  of  old,  I  prithee, 

Hold  thou  my  sword-hilts  whilst  I  run  on  it. 

TREBONIUS. 

That's  not  an  office  for  a  friend,  my  lord.         [Alarum  still. 

METELLUS. 

Fly,  fly,  my  lord  !  there  is  no  tarrying  here. 

BRUTUS. 

Farewell  to  you ;  — and  you  ;  — and  you,  countrymen. 

My  heart  doth  joy  that  yet  in  all  my  life 

I  found  no  man  but  he  was  true  to  me. 

I  shall  have  glory  by  this  losing  day, 

More  than  Octavius  and  Mark  Antony 

By  this  vile  conquest  shall  attain  unto.  [Alarums. 


JULIUS    CJESAR.  85 

METELLUS. 

Fly,  my  lord,  fly  ! 

BRUTUS. 

So,  fare  you  well  at  once  !  for  Brutus'  tongue 

Hath  almost  ended  his  life's  history. 

Night  hangs  upon  my  eyes  ;  my  bones  would  rest, 

That  have  but  labour'd  to  attain  this  hour. 

Hence  !  I  will  follow.  —  Caesar,  now  be  still ;      [They  retire, 

I  killed  not  thee  with  half  so  good  a  will. 

[Dies.     Alarums. 

Enter  ANTONY,  OCTAVIUS,  officers  and  soldiers. 

OCTAVIUS. 
Where  is  thy  master  ? 

ANTONY. 

This  was  the  noblest  Roman  of  them  all. 

All  the  conspirators,  save  only  he, 

Did  that  they  did  in  envy  of  great  Caesar ; 

He  only,  in  a  general  honest  thought 

And  common  good  to  all,  made  one  of  them. 

His  life  was  gentle,  and  the  elements 

So  mix'd  in  him  that  Nature  might  stand  up 

And  say  to  all  the  world,  "  This  was  a  man  !  " 

CURTAIN'. 


JULIUS  CAESAR. 

APPENDIX. 
I.  THE  TRAGEDY  AND  THE  CHARACTERS. 

The  reference  to  Shakespeare  made  by  Ben  Jonson,  in  his  "Tim- 
ber," is  one  of  the  most  significant  and  valuable  tributes  to  the  great 
poet  that  have  survived  from  his  time. 
BEN  JONSON  : 

"  I  remember  the  Players  have  often  mentioned  it  as  an  honour  to 
Shakespeare  that  in  his  Writing,  whatsoever  he  penned,  he  never 
blotted  out  a  Line.  My  answer  hath  been,  Would  he  had  blotted  a 
thousand.  Which  they  thought  a  malevolent  Speech.  I  had  not  told 
Posterity  this,  but  for  their  ignorance,  who  chose  that  Circumstance  to 
commend  their  Friend  by,  wherein  he  most  faulted.  And  to  justifie 
mine  own  Candor,  for  I  loved  the  Man  and  do  honour  his  Memory,  on 
this  side  Idolatry,  as  much  as  any.  He  was,  indeed,  honest  and  of 
an  open  and  free  Nature  ;  had  an  excellent  Phantsie,  brave  Notions, 
and  gentle  Expressions  ;  wherein  he  flowed  with  that  facility  that 
sometime  it  was  necessary  he  should  be  stopped  :  Stifflaminandus  erat, 
as  Augustus  said  of  Haterius.  His  Wit  was  in  his  own  Power ;  would 
the  Rule  of  it  had  been  so  too.  Many  times  he  fell  into  those  things 
could  not  escape  laughter :  As  when  he  said  in  the  Person  of  Caesar, 
one  speaking  to  him,  C&sar,  thou  dost  me  wrong.  He  replied  :  C&sar 
did  never  wrong,  but  with  just  cause :  and  such  like  ;  which  were 
ridiculous.  But  he  redeemed  his  Vices  with  his  Virtues.  There  was 
ever  more  in  him  to  be  praised  than  to  be  pardoned." 


MRS.  ELIZABETH  MONTAGU: 

"Our  author,"  says  Mrs.  Montagu,  in  her  discriminative  essay  on 
Shakespeare,  which  is  a  worthy  and  reverent  composition,   notwith- 
standing the  playful  sarcasm  of  her  friend,  Dr.  Johnson,   "who  follows 
with  great  exactness  every  circumstance  mentioned  by  Plutarch,  would, 
86 


APPENDIX.  87 

probably,  have  attempted  to  'give  to  Antony  the  pomp  of  Asiatic  elo- 
quence, if  his  good  sense  had  not  informed  him  that  to  be  pathetic  it  is 
necessary  to  be  simple." 


EDWARD  DOWDEN  : 

"  Brutus  acts  as  an  idealist  and  theorizer  might,  with  no  eye  for  the 
actual  bearing  of  facts  and  no  sense  of  the  true  importance  of  persons. 
Intellectual  doctrines  and  moral  ideals  rule  the  life  of  Brutus  ;  and  his 
life  is  most  noble,  high,  and  stainless,  but  his  public  action  is  a  series 
of  practical  mistakes :  yet  even  while  he  errs  we  admire  him,  for  all 
his  errors  are  those  of  a  pure  and  lofty  spirit.  *  *  *  Brutus,  with 
all  his  stoicism,  is  gentle  and  tender :  he  can  strike  down  Caesar,  if 
Caesar  be  a  tyrant,  but  he  cannot  roughly  rouse  a  sleeping  boy.  *  *  * 
All  the  practical  gifts,  insight,  and  tact  which  Brutus  lacks  are  pos- 
sessed by  Cassius.  *  *  *  Antony  is  a  man  of  genius,  with  many 
splendid  and  some  generous  qualities,  but  very  indulgent,  pleasure- 
loving,  and  a  daring  adventurer  rather  than  a  great  leader  of  the  State. 
*  *  *  Brutus  lives  in  the  abstraction,  in  the  idea  ;  Cassius  lives 
in  the  concrete,  in  the  fact.  *  *  *  It  is  the  spirit  of  Caesar  which 
is  the  dominant  power  of  the  tragedy  ;  against  this — the  spirit  of  Caesar — 
Brutus  fought ;  but  Brutus,  who  forever  errs  in  practical  politics,  suc- 
ceeded only  in  striking  down  Caesar's  body ;  he  who  had  been  weak 
now  rises  as  pure  spirit,  strong  and  terrible,  and  revenges  himself  upon 
the  conspirators.  *  *  *  Antony  does  not  judge  men  by  a  severe 
moral  code,  but  he  feels  in  an  aesthetic  way  the  grace,  the  splendor, 
the  piteous  interest  of  the  actors  in  the  exciting  drama  of  life,  or  their 
impertinence,  ineptitude,  and  comicality ;  and  he  feels  that  the  play 
is  poorer  by  the  loss  of  so  noble  a  figure  as  that  of  Brutus.  *  *  * 
No  relation  of  man  and  woman  in  the  plays  of  Shakespeare  is  altogether 
so  noble  as  that  of  Portia  and  Brutus.  *  *  *  Portia,  while  per- 
fectly a  woman,  must  be  to  him  more  than  a  woman  ;  she  must  be  an 
ideal  of  august  and  adorable  heroism.  *  *  *  We  read  of  no  em- 
brace, no  touch  of  hands  or  lips,  between  Brutus  and  Portia ;  but  we 
know  that  their  souls  have  met  and  that  they  are  inseparably  one  and 
absolutely  equal.  *  *  *  And  because  she  yields  less  than  others, 
she  may  snap  the  more  suddenly.  'It  is  the  strongest  hearts,'  said 
Landor,  '  that  are  soonest  broken.'  " 


88  APPENDIX. 

GERVINUS  : 

"  The  Poet,  if  he  intended  to  make  the  attempt  of  the  Republicans 
his  main  theme,  could  not  have  ventured  to  create  too  great  an  interest 
in  Csesar ;  it  was  necessary  to  keep  him  in  the  background,  and  to 
present  that  view  of  him  which  gave  a  reason  for  the  conspiracy." 


WARBURTON  : 

"  It  is  observable  with  what  judgment  Shakespeare  draws  the  char- 
acter of  Octavius.  Antony  was  his  hero  ;  so  the  other  was  not  to 
shine  :  yet,  being  an  historical  character,  there  was  a  necessity  to  draw 
him  like.  He  was,  therefore,  compelled  to  admit  the  great  strokes  of 
his  character,  but  has,  notwithstanding,  contrived  to  leave  him  feeble 
and  ineffective." 


HAZLITT: 

"We  do  not  much  admire  the  representation  here  given  of  Julius 
Caesar,  nor  do  we  think  it  answers  to  the  portrait  given  of  him  in  his 
Commentaries.  He  makes  several  vaporing  and  rather  pedantic 
speeches,  and  does  nothing.  Indeed,  he  has  nothing  to  do.  So  far, 
the  fault  of  the  character  might  be  the  fault  of  the  plot. 

*  *  *  a  The  whole  design  to  liberate  their  country  fails,  from 
the  gracious  temper  and  unswerving  confidence  of  Brutus  in  the  good- 
ness of  their  cause  and  the  assistance  of  others.  Thus  it  has  always 
been.  Those  who  mean  well  themselves  think  well  of  others,  and  fall 
a  prey  to  their  security.  *  *  *  Cassius  was  better  cut  out  for  a 
conspirator.  *  *  *  The  mixed  nature  of  his  motives  made  him 
fitter  to  contend  with  bad  men." 


II. — "  JULIUS  OESAR"  ON  THE  OLD  ENGLISH  STAGE. 
Mohun  is  praised  by  Downes  for  his  fine  performance  of  Cassius, 
and  that  achievement  is  also  commended  by  Wilmot,  Lord  Rochester, 
(1647-1680).  Mohun  was  remarkable  for  dignity  of  demeanor  and 
grace  of  movement.  Hart,  who  acted  with  him,  was  accounted  great 
in  Brutus.  Bowman,  at  four-score,  played  Ligarius,  and  played  it  so 
well  as  to  annoy  Quin,  who  was  the  Brutus,  by  his  excellence  in  that 
little  part.  Barton  Booth  was  noble  in  Brutus  ;  it  is  recorded  that  he 


APPENDIX.  89 

caused  a  prodigious  effect  by  his  steadfast  look  at  Cassius,  when  deliv- 
ering the  words  "  No,  on  your  soul  you  durst  not," — words  which  he 
spoke  in  a  voice  scarcely  raised  above  a  whisper.  Quin,  on  the  con- 
trary, was  somewhat  loud  and  violent,  at  this  point.  One  of  Quin's 
finest  strokes,  as  Brutus,  appears  to  have  been  his  pathetic  utterance  of 
"  Portia  is  dead."  He  spoke  those  words  with  extreme  simplicity, 
after  a  most  expressive  pause.  Quin  adopted  Warburton's  reading, — 
"death"  instead  of  "both" — in  the  second  of  the  two  subjoined 
lines. 

"  Set  honor  in  one  eye  and  death  in  the  other, 
And  I  will  look  on  death  indifferently." 

Thomas  Davies,  in  his  "  Dramatic  Miscellanies,"  1784,  says  : 
"  Julius  Caesar  was  one  of  the  three  plays  acted,  by  the  desire  of  the 
prime  nobility  in  Queen  Anne's  time,  with  the  united  strength  of  the 
then  two  companies.  Casca,  if  I  remember  right,  was  acted  by  a 
principal  comedian.  Above  five  and  forty  years  since  Winstone  was 
selected  for  that  character,  when  Quin  acted  Brutus  and  the  elder  Mills 
Cassius,  Mil  ward  Marc  Antony,  and  W.  Mills  Julius  Caesar.  The 
assumed  doggedness  and  sourness  of  Casca  sat  well  upon  Winstone. 
The  four  principal  parts  have  not  since  that  time  been  equally  well 
presented.  Mr.  Garrick,  pleased  with  the  spirit  and  fire  of  Cassius, 
once  determined  to  have  tried  his  skill  in  that  part,  but  whether  he 
thought  he  should  only  swell  the  consequence  of  his  competitor,  Quin, 
in  Brutus,  or  from  what  other  cause  I  know  not,  he  relinquished  his  inten- 
tion, nor  was  this  excellent  play  revived  during  his  management  of  the 
stage,  though  I  am  of  opinion  he  wanted  not  actors  of  merit  to  do  con- 
siderable justice  to  the  play.  *  *  * 

"  Who  acted  the  part  of  Julius  Caesar  originally  is  not  known,  nor  is 
it  a  matter  of  importance,  but  soon  after  the  junction  of  the-King's  and 
the  Duke  of  York's  company,  about  the  year  1682,  this  tragedy  was, 
in  all  its  parts,  so  acted  as  it  never  had  been,  perhaps,  before,  and  cer- 
tainly has  not  since.  Betterton,  Brutus ;  Smith,  Cassius ;  Marc 
Antony  by  Kynaston  ;  and  Julius  Caesar  by  Goodman.  Griffin,  Mount- 
fort,  Williams,  Gallow,  Jevon,  Underbill,  and  Leigh,  all  very  eminent 
actors,  thought  it  no  diminution  of  their  consequence  to  play  the  infe- 
rior parts.  *  *  *  ' 


90  APPENDIX. 

This  performance  occurred  at  the  old  Theatre  Royal,  in  1684. 
Griffin  played  Casca. 

"  Wilks,  who  above  fifty  years  since  acted  Marc  Antony,  as  soon  as 
he  entered  the  stage  without  taking  any  notice  of  the  conspirators  walked 
swiftly  up  to  the  dead  body  of  Caesar  and  knelt  down  ;  he  paused  some 
time  before  he  spoke  ;  and,  after  surveying  the  corpse  with  manifest 
tokens  of  the  deepest  sorrow,  he  addressed  it  in  the  most  affecting  and 
pathetic  manner.  A  graceful  dignity  accompanied  the  action  and  de- 
portment of  this  actor.  *  *  * 

"  The  action  of  Wilks,  in  Antony,  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of 
the  oration,  was  critically  adapted  to  produce  the  intended  consequences 
of  the  speaker.  His  address,  through  the  whole,  was  easy  and  ele- 
gant, but  his  voice  wanted  that  fullness  and  variety  requisite  to  impress 
the  sentiments  and  pathos  with  which  the  speech  abounds  ;  besides, 
Wilks  was  apt  to  strike  the  syllables  too  forcibly  as  well  as  uniformly." 

"  Mr.  Barry's  fine  person  and  pleasing  manner  were  well  adapted  to 
Marc  Antony,  but  his  utterance,  in  recitation,  was  not  sufficiently 
sonorous,  nor  his  voice  flexible  enough  to  express  the  full  meaning  of 
the  author,  in  the  opening  of  the  address.  When  roused  by  passion 
Barry  rose  superior  to  all  speakers.  His  close  of  the  harangue  was  as 
warm  and  glowing  as  the  beginning  was  cold  and  deficient. 

"  The  only  man,  in  my  memory,  whose  powers  were  perfectly  suited 
to  all  parts  of  this  celebrated  harangue  was  William  Milward.  *  * 

*  In  Marc  Antony  he  had  everything  for  him  which  nature  could 
bestow, — person,  look,  voice  ;  his  action  and  address  were  easy  with- 
out art,  and  his  deportment,  though  not  absolutely  perfect,  was  far  from 
ungraceful  ;  he  opened  the  preparatory  of  the  oration  in  a  low  but  dis- 
tinct and  audible  voice,  *  *  *  and,  by  gradual  progress,  rose  to 
such  a  height  as  not  only  to  inflame  the  populace  on  the  stage,  but  to 
touch  the  audience  with  a  kind  of  enthusiastic  rapture." 


III. — MACREADY  IN  "  JULIUS  CESAR." 
That  great  actor,  Macready  (1793-1873),  in  his  Reminiscences  and 

Diaries,  records  his  experience  with  Cassius,  in  which  character  he  was 

accounted  pre-eminently  excellent. 

1818-19.    "This  year  I  studied,   in   '  Julius  Caesar, '  the  'lean  and 

wrinkled  Cassius,'  a  part  in  the  representation  of  which  I  have,  through 


APPENDIX.  91 

my  professional    life,  taken  peculiar  pleasure,  as  one  among    Shake- 
speare's most  perfect  specimens  of  idiosyncrasy." 

1822.  "The  season  (at  Covent  Garden,  London)  dragged  its  slow 
length  along,  but  received  an  impetus  from  the  performance  of 
'Julius  Caesar,' — Young  acting  Brutus,  myself  Cassius,  Charles  Kemble 
Marc  Antony,  and  Fawcett  Casca.  The  receipt  of  the  first  night 
exceeded,  it  was  said,  six  hundred  pounds  (^600),  and  the  house  was 
crowded  to  its  several  repetitions.  On  this  occasion  I  entered  con 
amore  into  the  study  of  the  character  of  Cassius,  identifying  myself 
with  the  eager  ambition,  the  keen  penetration,  and  the  restless  envy 
of  the  determined  conspirator,  which  from  that  time  I  made  one  of  my 
most  real  presentations." 

At  the  Theatre  Royal  in  Glasgow,  in  1813-14,  Macready  acted  Marc 
Antony,  in  "  Julius  Caesar."  He  had  previously,  1811-12,  played  the 
Antony  of  "  Antony  and  Cleopatra,"  but  he  had  not  succeeded  in  it ; 
he  was  then  only  eighteen,  and  too  young  for  such  a  character.  In 
1833  he  again  acted  Antony,  in  "Julius  Caesar,"  but  he  was  never  as 
good  in  that  part,  or  as  much  esteemed  in  it,  as  he  was  in  Cassius,  or, 
later,  in  Brutus. 

November  1 8,  1836,  Macready  writes:  "Acted  Brutus.  *  *  * 
It  is  one  of  those  characters  that  require  peculiar  care,  which  only 
repetition  can  give,  but  it  never  can  be  a  part  that  can  inspire  a  person 
with  an  eager  desire  to  go  to  a  theatre  to  see  it  represented." 

London,  April  5,  1848.  "  Acted  Brutus  in  a  very  masterly  manner. 
I  do  not  think  I  ever  acted  it  with  the  same  feeling,  force,  and 
reality." 

On  February  I,  1850,  Macready  acted  Brutus,  before  Queen  Victoria 
and  her  court,  at  Windsor,  and  was  brilliantly  successful. 

November  18,  1850,  Macready  writes  :  "Acted  Brutus,  in  my  own 
opinion,  in  my  own  judgment,  far  beyond  any  performance  I  ever  gave 
of  the  character ;  it  was  my  last,  to  many,  and  I  wished  it  to  be  im- 
pressive. I  do  not  think  the  audience,  in  the  aggregate,  were  equal  to 
the  performance.  They  applauded  warmly  the  salient  passages,  but 
they  did  not  seem  to  watch  the  gentle,  loving,  self-subdued  mind  of 
Brutus,  which  I  tried  to  make  manifest  before  them." 

January  24,  1851.  "Acted  Brutus,  as  I  never — no,  never — acted  it 
before,  in  regard  to  dignified  familiarity  of  language  or  enthusiastic 
inspiration  of  lofty  purpose.  The  tenderness,  the  reluctance  to  deeds 


92  APPENDIX. 

of  violence,  the  instinctive  abhorrence  of  tyranny,  the  open  simplicity 
of  heart  and  natural  grandeur  of  soul,  I  never  so  perfectly,  so  con- 
sciously, portrayed  before.  I  think  the  audience  felt  it." 

In  the  course  of  Macready's  management  of  Covent  Garden,  Sep- 
tember 30,  1837,  to  July  6,  1839,  Vandenhoff  distinguished  himself  as 
Antony.  At  Drury  Lane,  May  I,  1843,  James  Anderson  acted  Antony  ; 
Macready  was  Brutus,  and  Samuel  Phelps,  Cassius.  Phelps,  who 
managed  Sadler's  Wells  Theatre,  Islington,  London,  from  May  27, 
1844,  to  November  6,  1862,  several  times  presented  "Julius  Caesar," 
and  took  his  farewell  benefit  in  it,  on  the  closing  night,  playing  Brutus. 
William  Creswick  played  Cassius,  and  Edward  Phelps  played  Antony. 


IV.     FAMOUS  CASTS  OF  "  JULIUS  C/ESAR." 

Various  interesting  and  instructive  facts  in  the  stage  history  of 
"Julius  Caesar"  may  be  indicated  by  a  sequent  exhibition  of  the  more 
famous  casts  with  which,  at  various  times,  the  tragedy  has  been  repre- 
sented. In  most  instances  only  the  principal  features  are  given,  but  in 
a  few  cases  the  casts  are  complete  : 
Theatre  Royal,  London,  1682. 

Brutus,      Hart 

Cassius Mohun 

Antony, Kynaston 

Caesar, Bell 

Portia, Mrs.  Corbet 

Calphurnia, Mrs.  Marshall 

TTieatre  Royal,  London,  1684. 

Brutus Betterton 

Cassius Smith 

Antony, Kynaston 

Caesar, Goodman 

Casca, Griffin 

Octavius, Perm 

Ligarius, Bowman 

Decius, Williams 

Cimber,     . Mountfort 

Portia, Mrs.  Cook 

Calphurnia, Mrs.  Slingsby 


APPENDIX. 
Haymarket  Theatre,  London,  January  14,  770,5. 

Brutus> Betterton 

Cassius> Verbruggen 

Anton>r' Wilks 

Caesar,  ...  T>     ., 
Booth 

Casca' Keen 

Octavius' Mills 

Llearius' Bowman 

Portia' Mrs.  Bracegirdle 

Calphurnia Mrs   Barry 

Drury  Lane,  London,  January  34,  /7/j. 

?rutus» Booth 

Elrington 

Wilks 

CxsM' Mills 

Portla' Mrs.  Porter 

Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  London,  March  z,  1718. 

Brutus-     Keen 

Cassius Ryan 

Quin 

Leigh 

>rtla> Mrs.  Rogers 

Calphurnia, Mrs.  Knight 

Drury  Lane,  London,  November  8,  1734. 

Brutus>      Quin 

Cassius, Mills 

Antony, Milward 

C3esar» W.  Mills 

Casca' T.  Gibber 

Octavius. Salway 

Trebonius, Winstone 

Ligarius> Bowman 

Portia»  •    •" Mrs.  Thurmond 

Calphurnia, Mrs-   Butler 


94  APPENDIX. 

Covent  Garden,  London,  November  24,  i75°- 

Brutus,      ..................  Quin 

Cassius,     .................      Ryan 

Antony,    .................     Barry 

Portia,  ..............    Peg  Woffington 


Covent  Garden,  London,  January  28, 

Brutus  .................   Sheridan 

Cassius,     .................      Ryan 

Antony,     .................    Smith 

Portia,       .............    Mrs.  Hamilton 

Covent  Garden,  London,  January  ji,  i"j66. 

Brutus,  ........    .    ........     Walker 

Cassius,     .......    ..........    Smith 

Antony,     ..................  Ross 

Csesar,  ..................  Clarke 

Portia,  ...............   Mrs.  Bellamy 

Covent  Garden,  London,  May  4,  /77J. 

Brutus,      ................     Bensley 

Cassius  ..........    .   ........  Hull 

Csesar,  ............   .   .....   Clarke 

Casca,    .................     Gardner 

Octavius,  ...    ............   Wroughton 

Portia,  ...............    Mrs.  Hartley 

Calphurnia,  .............    Mrs.  Vincent 

Drury  Lane,  London,  January  24,  1780. 

Brutus,      .......    ....    ......  Palmer 

Cassius,     .................   Henry 

Antony,     .................    Smith 

Csesar,  ..................  Packer 

Casca,    ..................   Aiken 

Octavius,  .........   .   .......  Farren 

Portia,  ..............     Mrs.  Baddeley 

Calphurnia,  ..............  Miss  Sherry 


APPENDIX.  95 

Cwent  Garden,  London,  February  29,  1812. 

Brutus, John  Philip  Kemble 

Cassias, Young 

Antony, Charles  Kemble 

Caesar, Egerton 

Casca, Fawcett 

Octavius, Hamerton 

Lepidus, ,      Murray 

Trebonius, Banymore 

Decius Brunton 

Portia, Mrs.  Powell 

Calphurnia, Mrs.  Weston 

With  reference  to  Kemble's  revival  of  "Julius  Caesar,"  his  biog- 
rapher, Boaden,  says  :  "  Mr.  Kemble  had,  as  usual,  made  some  very 
judicious  alterations  and  arrangements  in  the  piece,  and  in  his  own 
performance  of  Brutus  exhibited  all  that  purity  of  patriotism  and  phi- 
losophy which  has  been,  not  without  some  hesitation,  attributed  to  that 
illustrious  name." 

Kemble's  greatest  Roman  was  Coriolanus.  Boaden  ranks  his 
Cato — in  Addison's  tragedy — above  his  Brutus.  Dr.  Doran  {Annals 
of  the  English  Stage]  says  that  his  Brutus  was  "perfect  in  conception 
and  execution." 

Covent  Garden,  London,  June  8,  1819. 

Brutus, Young 

Cassius, Macready.     {First  time.) 

Casca. Yates.     (First  time.) 

Drury  Lane,  London,  December  7,  1820. 

Brutus,      Wallack.     (First  time.) 

Cassius, J.  B.  Booth.      (First  time.) 

Antony, Cooper.      (First  time.) 

Caesar, Pope 

Portia, Mrs.  W.  West 


96  APPENDIX. 

Cffvent  Garden,  London,  September  26,  1825. 

Brutus, Warde 

Cassius, Cooper 

Antony, Charles  Kemble 

Caesar, Egerton 

Casca, Fawcett 

Portia, Mrs.  Hartley 

Covent  Garden,  London,  May  ib,  fSj8. 

Brutus,      . Macready 

Cassius, Samuel  Phelps 

Antony, Elton 

Octavius, James  Anderson 

Portia, Helen  Faucit 


"JULIUS  CESAR"  IN  AMERICA. 

John  Street  TTieatre,  New  York,  March  14,  1794. 

This  was  the  first  performance  of    'Julius  Csesar  "  in  New  York. 

Brutus,      Hallam 

Cassius, Henry 

Antony, Hodgkinson 

Caesar, Richards 

Casca, King 

Trebonius, Woolls 

Pindarus, Hammond 

Decius Ashton 

Cimber, Ryan 

Lucius,      Bergman 

Cinna, Prigmore 

Marcellus, Blisset 

Titinius, Durang 

Lucilius, West 

Artimedorus, O'Reilley 

Portia, Mrs.  Melmoth 

Calphurnia, Mrs.  Hallam 


APPENDIX.  97 

Chatham  Theatre,  New  York,  June  26,  1826. 

Brutus Conway 

Cassius, Duff 

Antony, Henry  Wallack 

Caesar J.  R.  Scott 

Portia, Mrs.  Duff 

Calphurnia, '. Mrs.  H.  Wallack 

Bowery  Theatre,  New  York,  January  15,  1834. 

This  cait,  surely,  has  never  been  surpassed,  if,  indeed,  it  was  ever  equaled. 

Brutus,      Hamblin 

Cassius, Cooper 

Antony, Edwin  Forrest 

Caesar, George  Jones 

Casca, Henry  Wallack 

Octavius, E.  S.  Conner 

Trebonius, Maclure 

Citizen, Gates 

Portia, Mrs.  Flynn 

Calphurnia, Mrs.  Herring 

Park  Theatre,  New  York,  November  13,  1843. 

Brutus, Wallack 

Cassius, J.  B.  Booth 

Antony Wheatley 

Caesar, Barry 

Casca, Chippendale 

Octavius, Lovell 

Portia, Mrs.  Sloman 

Calphurnia, Miss  McBride 

Astor  Place  Opera  House,  New  York,  October  16,  1848. 

Brutus, Macready 

Cassius, John  Ryder 

Antony, George  Vandenhoff 

Portia, Miss  C.  Wemyss 

Niblo's  Garden,  New  York,  June  //,  1859. 

Brutus,      E.  L.  Davenport, 

Cassius, Edward  Eddy. 

Antony Harry  Perry. 

7 


98  APPENDIX. 

Niblo's  Garden ,  New  York,  September  5,  i8jo. 

Brutus, E.  L.  Davenport 

Cassius, Lawrence  Barrett 

Antony, Walter  Montgomery 

Caesar,       F.  C.  Bangs 

Casca, Mark  Smith 

Portia,       Mme.  Ponisi 

Calphurnia, Louisa  Moore 


Booth's  Theatre,  New  York,  Christmas  Night,  1871. 

Brutus Edwin  Booth 

Cassius, Lawrence  Barrett 

Antony, F.  C.  Bangs 

Casca, James  Stark 

Caesar D.  W.  Waller 

Octavius, John  W.  Norton 

Trebonius, John  Wilson 

Decius, Nelson  Decker 

Cimber, Frederick  Bernard 

Cinna, Frederick  Monroe 

Popilius J.  Rooney 

Soothsayer, Augustus  W.  Fenno 

Titinius i    .    .  J.  P.  Deuel 

Ligarius, David  C.  Anderson 

Flavius, Henry  Hogan 

Varro, Charles  North 

Pindarus, G.  H.  Harris 

Lepidus, John  Taylor 

Servius  (Servant  to  Antony),    ....     T.  F.  Brennan 

Strato,       F.  Intropidi 

Clitus, A.  Curtis 

Lucius, Frank  Little 

First  Citizen, Robert  Pateman 

Second  Citizen, Charles  Rosene 

Portia, Bella  Pateman 

Calphurnia, Theresa  Selden 


APPENDIX.  99 

Edwin  Booth's  presentment  of  "Julius  Caesar'1  was  one  of  the  most 
impressive  spectacles  ever  seen  upon  the  stage.  First  given  on  Christ- 
mas night,  1871,  and  continued  until  March  16,  1872,  the  tragedy 
was  kept  before  the  New  York  public  for  twelve  weeks,  and  it  had 
eighty-five  consecutive  representations.  On  February  19,  1872, 
J.  B.  Booth,  Edwin's  elder  brother,  succeeded  Lawrence  Barrett  as 
Cassius.  On  March  4  Edwin  Booth  assumed  Cassius  and  William 
Creswick  appeared  as  Brutus.  On  March  II  Creswick  played  Cassius, 
Bangs  assumed  Brutus,  and  Edwin  Booth  presented  Antony.  Thus, 
in  the  course  of  the  run,  Edwin  Booth  was  seen  in  all  three  of  the 
great  characters  of  the  tragedy.  Booth  retired  from  Booth's  Theatre 
in  1873,  and  the  theatre  finally  passed  out  of  his  hands  in  1874. 


Booth's  Theatre,  New  York,  Jarrett  6°  Palmer,  Managers,  December 


Brutus,   .   ............  E.  L.  Davenport. 

Cassius,'  ..........   ...  Lawrence  Barrett. 

Antony,      ..............  F.  C.  Bangs. 

Caesar,    ..............    Milnes  Levick. 

Casca,    ..............  H.  A.  Weaver. 

Portia,    ...............    Mary  Wells. 

Calphurnia,    .............     Rosa  Rand. 


The  tragedy,  on  this  occasion,  was  performed  until  April  I,  1876, 
and  it  had  one  hundred  and  three  consecutive  representations.  Jarrett 
&  Palmer  managed  Booth's  Theatre  from  May  I,  1874  (they  did 
not  open  it  till  August  15),  to  April,  1877.  Their  revival  of  "Julius 
Csesar"  was  made  with  the  scenery  that  Booth  had  provided,  but 
they  added,  at  the  end,  a  funeral  pyre,  which  originally  had  been  used 
to  conclude  their  setting  of  "  Coriolanus,"  at  Niblo's  Garden.  Booth's 
Theatre  stood  on  the  southeast  corner  of  Twenty-third  Street  and 
Sixth  Avenue,  New  York.  It  was  opened  on  February  3,  1869,  with 
"Romeo  and  Juliet" — Edwin  Booth  playing  Romeo,  and  Mary 


TOO  APPENDIX. 

McVicker,  afterwards  Mrs.  E.  Booth,  playing  Juliet — and  it  was  finally 
closed,  with  the  same  play,  Mme.  Modjeska  presenting  Juliet,  on 
April  30,  1883  ;  and  subsequently  it  was  demolished  to  make  way  for 
shops.  One  of  the  most  beautiful  performances  of  Brutus  ever  given 
was  that  of  John  McCullough,  which  was  first  seen  in  New  York,  at 
Booth's  Theatre,  May  24,  1878. 

The  present  writer  witnessed,  recorded,  and  reviewed  all  the  per- 
formances above  mentioned,  at  Booth's  Theatre,  of  "Julius  Caesar." 
His  comments  on  the  one  hundredth  representation  of  the  play,  with 
Davenport  and  Barrett  in  the  cast,  may  appropriately  be  reproduced 
here  : 

'  The  acting  showed  no  signs  of  indifference  or  decline.  Mr.  Barrett, 
Mr.  Davenport,  Mr.  Bangs,  Mr.  Levick,  Mr.  Weaver,  Miss  Wells, 
and  Miss  Rand  (they  are  all  dead  now,  1899,  except  Mr.  Bangs)  bore 
the  parts  with  which  they  have  become  identified,  and  bore  them 
'  with  untired  spirits  and  formal  constancy.'  There  was  a  melancholy 
grace,  a  sad  abstraction,  in  the  mood  in  which  Mr.  Davenport  in- 
terpreted Brutus,  which  made  him  very  pathetic  as  a  type  of  nobleness 
foredoomed  to  ruin,  and  it  seemed  that  he  finished  every  part  of  the 
embodiment  with  more  than  commonly  precise  tints  of  truth.  There 
was  a  touching  vein  of  regret  in  the  attitude  toward  Caesar,  and  much 
vigor  of  imagination  in  the  awful  ghost  scene.  Mr.  Barrett  more  and 
more  shows  himself  to  be  almost  a  spiritualized  intellect.  He  pervaded 
the  play  like  the  indomitable  and  remorseless  figure  of  Fate,  and  he 
presented  Cassius  with  such  subtlety  of  thought,  such  power  of  intel- 
lectual passion,  such  vigorous  and  sonorous  eloquence,  and  such  force 
of  identification  and  spontaneity  as  could  not  and  did  not  fail  to 
command  the  warmest  admiration  and  sympathy.  Mr.  Bangs  also 
partook  of  the  excitement  of  this  interesting  occasion,  and  gave 
Antony  with  vehement  spirit.  At  the  end  of  the  ghost  scene,  Mr. 
Davenport,  Mr.  Barrett,  Mr.  Bangs,  and  Mr.  Levick  were  called 
before  the  curtain,  and  speeches  were  given  by  each  of  them.  Mr. 
Barrett  spoke  of  the  run  of  '  Julius  Caesar  '  as  '  glorious  to  our  stage, 
complimentary  to  our  public,  and  grateful  to  the  actors. '  Mr.  Davenport 
was  facetious  as  well  as  serious.  Mr.  Levick  modestly  spoke  the  line 
from  'Hamlet,'  'I  am  poor  even  in  thanks,  but  I  thank  you.' 
There  was  a  loud  call  for  Mr.  J.  H.  Tooker  (the  acting  manager),  but 


APPENDIX.  10 1 

he  did  not  appear.     A  ship  of  flowers,  laden  with  a  harp,  was  pre- 
sented to  Lawrence  Barrett.' 

Music  Hall,  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  Dramatic  Festival,  April  30,  1883. 

Cassar, Louis  James 

Octavius, Otis  Skinner 

Antony, James  E.  Murdock 

Brutus, John  McCullough 

Cassias, Lawrence  Barrett 

Casca, H.  A.  Langdon 

Trebonius, F.  C.  Mosley 

Decius, B.  G.  Rogers 

Cimber, H.  C.  Barton 

Cinna, F.  Little 

Popilius,      Homer  Cope 

Titinius, A.  T.  Riddle 

Lucius, M.  Willett 

Pindarus, Charles  Rolfe 

Soothsayer, Errol  Dunbar 

Servius, Charles  Plunkett 

First  Citizen, C.  W.  Vance 

Second  Citizen, Charles  Plunkett 

Calphurnia, Marie  Wainwright 

Portia, Kate  Forsyth 

Gould,  in  "  The  Tragedian,"  mentions  a  performance  of  Cassius,  by 
Junius  Brutus  Booth,  Edwin's  father,  given  in  Boston,  in  or  about 
1837,  with  Edwin  Forrest  as  Antony  : 

"  The  noble  head,  the  mobile  features,  the  spare  figure  of  Booth 
gave  him  a  singular  external  fitness  for  the  part.  *  *  *  His 
Cassius  was  signalized  by  one  action  of  characteristic  excellence  and 
originality.  After  Caesar  had  been  encompassed  and  stabbed  by  the 
conspirators,  and  lay  extended  on  the  floor  of  the  senate  house,  Booth 
strode  right  across  the  dead  body  and  out  of  the  scene,  in  silent  and 
disdainful  triumph." 

This  "business"  was  adopted  by  Edwin  Booth  when  he  played 
Gloster  ;  he  used  to  stride  over  the  corpse  of  Henry  VI,  whom  he  had 
just  killed. 


102  APPENDIX. 

The  reader  is  referred  to  my  Life  and  Art  of  Edwin  Booth,  for  an 
estimate  of  Booth's  embodiments  of  Brutus,  Cassius,  and  Antony. 

Edwin  Booth  and  Lawrence  Barrett  formed  a  professional  alliance 
in  the  summer  of  1886, — when  the  former  actor  was  visiting  the  latter, 
at  his  sea-side  home,  in  Cohassett,  Massachusetts.  The  alliance  was 
suggested  by  Barrett.  The  first  Booth  and  Barrett  season  began  on 
September  12,  1886,  at  Buffalo,  N.  Y.,  but  Booth  and  Barrett  did  not 
act  together,  under  this  new  compact,  till  the  season  of  1887-88.  Bar- 
rett was  the  manager,  and  he  traveled  with  a  company  of  his  own. 
"  Julius  Caesar"  was  presented  by  Booth,  at  Buffalo,  to  begin  the  sea- 
son. Mr.  John  A.  Lane,  Mr.  Benjamin  G.  Rogers,  Mr.  Owen  Fawcett, 
Mr.  Edward  J.  Buckley,  Mr.  Hanford,  Miss  Minnie  Gale,  Miss  Ger- 
trude Kellogg,  Miss  Elizabeth  Robins,  and  others  were  in  the  com- 
pany. When  at  length  the  two  stars  joined  their  forces,  Booth  played 
Brutus  and  Barrett  played  Cassius,  as  they  had  done  when  at  Booth's 
Theatre,  in  1871-72.  This  alliance  continued,  and  it  was  a  source  of 
much  pleasure  to  the  public,  till  the  death  of  Barrett, — to  the  deep  and 
lasting  grief  of  many  friends, — on  March  20,  1891.  Booth  died, 
universally  lamented  on  June  7,  1893.  In  the  season  of  1889-90  the 
beautiful  Mme.  Modjeska  was  associated  with  Booth. 

This  is  one  of  the  casts  of  "Julius  Caesar"  as  given  by  Booth  & 
Barrett : 

Brutus, Edwin  Booth 

Cassius, Lawrence  Barrett 

Marc  Antony, Charles  B.  Hanford 

Julius  Caesar, John  A.  Lane 

Decius,      .    - Charles  Collins 

Casca, Benjamin  G.  Rogers 

Octavius  Caesar, Lawrence  Hanky 

Metellus  Cimber, William  Stafford 

Popilius  Lenas, M.  C.  Stone 

Titinius, James  Morris 

Trebonius, Frederic  Vroom 

Cinna, .  Beaumont  Smith 

Soothsayer, W.  H.  DeWitt 

Pindarus, Charles  Koehler 

Servius, Walter  Thomas 


APPENDIX.  103 

Flavins, Melvin  Field 

Lucius, Agnes  Acres 

First  Citizen, Owen  Fawcett 

Second  Citizen, Oliver  Dowd 

Portia, Minna  K.  Gale 

Calphurnia, Gertrude  Kellogg 

Julius  Cjcsar  was  tall,  fair,  well  formed,  and  had  rather  a  full  face, 
and  black  eyes  (Suetonius).  He  was  bald,  and  he  wore  a  laurel 
crown  to  conceal  his  baldness  :  the  Roman  senate  gave  permission 
that  he  should  do  this.  He  wore  a  purple  tunic,  with  sleeves  that 
were  gathered  at  the  wrists,  and  the  tunic  was  loosely  girdled.  He 
also  wore  a  red  sash,  to  signify  his  decent  from  the  Albanian  kings. 

Octavius  was  five  feet  nine  inches  in  height,  of  a  fair  complexion, 
a  little  inclining  to  brown,  and  he  had  an  aquiline  nose,  small  ears, 
and  yellow  hair,  inclining  to  curl.  His  eyes  were  clear  and  fine.  He 
wore  the  usual  toga,  and,  in  winter,  four  tunics  beneath  it,  as  \»ell  as 
a  shirt  and  a  flannel  stomacher  and  wrappings.  His  shoes  were  made 
with  unusually  thick  soles,  so  as  to  increase  his  height ;  and  he 
commonly  wore  a  broad-brimmed  hat.  For  information  as  to  Roman 
costume  the  student  is  referred  to  the  Appendix  to  Edwin  Booth's 
Prompt-Book  of  ''Brutus,"  in  this  series,  and  to  Planche,  and  to 
Thomas  Hope's  Costumes  of  the  Ancients. 


104 


APPENDIX. 


The  PERSONS  REPRESENTED,  35  in  number,  as  designated  in  the 
Library  Editions  of  Shakespeare,  are  set  down  in  the  following  order, 
and  with  the  following  nomenclature  and  descriptions  : 

A  Soothsayer. 

Cinna,  a  Poet. 

Another  Poet. 

Lucilius, 

Titinius, 

Messala, 

Young  Cato, 

Volumnius, 

Varro, 

Clitus, 

Claudius, 

Strato, 

Lucius, 

Dardanius, 

Pindarus,  Servant  to  Cassius. 

Calphurnia,  Wife  to  Caesar. 

Portia,  Wife  to  Brutus. 


Julius  Caesar. 

Octavius  Caesar,     -v  Triumvirs,  after 

Marcus  Antonius,   I   the  Death  of 

M.  JEnal  Lepidus,  J         Caesar. 

Cicero,  -v 

Publius,  >•  Senators. 

Popilius  Lenas,  J 

Marcus  Brutus, 

Cassius, 

Conspirators 
Against 

Julius  Caesar. 


Trebonius, 

Ligarius, 

Decius  Brutus, 

Metellus  Cimber, 

Cinna, 

Flavius,    j 

Marullus,  ) 

Artemidorus,  a  Sophist  of  Cnidos. 


Friends  to  Brutus 
and  Cassius. 


Servants  to 
Brutus. 


Edwin  Booth's  stage  version  of  the  tragedy  omits  Cicero,  Publius, 
Marullus,  Artemidorus,  the  poet  Cinna  and  Another  Poet,  Lucilius, 
Messala,  Young  Cato,  Volumnius,  Claudius,  and  Dardanius.  The 
name  of  Servius  is  a  stage-manager's  coinage,  given  to  the  servant  of 
Antony  who  brings  Antony's  message  to  the  Conspirators,  after  the 
murder  of  Caesar. 

WILLIAM  WINTER. 

NEW  YORK,  January,  1899. 


THE 
MERCHANT  OF  VENICE 


VOL.    I 


preface. 

* 

1 1  >T~*HE  Merchant  of  Venice  "  is  mentioned  by  Meres 
•*•  [jj(?8~\,  and  it  was  first  published  in  1600.  The 
sovrces  to  which  it  is  thought  that  Shakespeare  resorted  for 
the  main  incidents  of  its  plot  are:  a  collection  of  tales 
called  "  II  Pecorone"  written  by  Ser  Giovanni,  a  notary  of 
Florence,  about  1378,  and  first  published  in  1558,  at 
Milan  ;  and  the  popular  collection  of  stories  called  the 
"  Gesta  Romanorum."  The  ballad  of  Gernutus,  which 
embodies  the  incident  of  the  bond,  —  and  which  may  be 
found  in  Percy's  "  Reliques"  and  in  several  modern  collec- 
tions of  old  poetry,  —  was  also,  probably,  extant  in  Shake- 
speare's day,  and  known  to  him.  It  is  conjectured,  too, 
that  an  earlier  play,  mentioned  by  Stephen  Gossan  [1579] 
as  "  shewn  at  the  Bull,"  and  as  "  representing  the  greedy- 
ness  of  worldly  choosers,  and  the  bloody  minds  of  usurers" 
may  have  dealt  with  some  of  the  old  materials  which  served 
Shakespeare  for  his  comedy.  The  savage,  relentless  Jew  is 
one  of  the  most  ancient  persons  of  fiction.  "  The  story  of 
the  caskets"  says  Dowden,  "  is  first  found  in  the  mediceval 
Greek  romance  of  '  Barlaam  and  Josaphat,'  by  Joannes 
Damascenus  (about  800}  ;  in  another  form  it  is  told  by 
the  English  poet  Gower,  and  the  Italian  novelist  Boccaccio." 
These  matters  are  solely  or  chiefly  interesting  as  tending  to 
direct  study  upon  the  wonderful  genius  with  which  Shake- 
speare transfigured  all  that  he  touched.  His  originality  is 
not  that  of  the  maker  of  themes  and  bald  facts,  but  that  of 


6  PREFACE. 

the  shaper  and  interpreter.  "  In  the  management  of  the 
plot"  says  Hallam,  "which  is  sufficiently  complex  without 
the  slightest  confusion  or  incoherence,!  do  not  conceive  that 
it  has  been  surpassed  in  the  annals  of  any  theatre."  "  The 
union  of  the  two  actions  in  one  event"  says  Dr.  Johnson, 
"  is,  in  this  drama,  eminently  happy.  Dryden  was  much 
pleased  with  his  own  address  in  connecting  the  two  plots  of 
his  '  Spanish  Friar,1  which  yet,  I  believe,  the  critic  will  find 
excelled  by  this  play" 

The  supremacy  of  Shakespeare  as  the  poet  of  nature  is 
conspicuously  seen  in  any  comparison  between  "  The  Mer- 
chant of  Venice"  and  its  popular  predecessor  on  the  old 
London  stage,  "  The  Rich  Jew  of  Malta"  by  Christopher 
Marlowe  [1594].  The  Jew  in  Marlowe's  piece,  a  thor- 
oughly diabolical  character,  was  acted  by  Alleyne,  the 
founder  of  Dulwich  College  —  still  standing,  with  his  tomb 
in  the  middle  of  its  hall  of  paintings  —  on  the  Surrey 
side  of  the  Thames.  An  alteration  of  "  The  Merchant  of 
Venice"  made  by  Lord  Lansdowne,  and  first  acted  at 
Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  was  published  in  1701  ;  and  this  held 
the  stage  till  1741,  when  Macklin  effected  his  restoration  of 
Shylock.  Lord  Lansdowne's  piece  begins  with  a  prologue, 
in  which  the  ghosts  of  Shakespeare  and  Dryden  rise, 
crowned  with  laurel;  and  its  second  act  contains  a  musical 
masque,  called  Peleus  and  Thetis.  A  banquet  scene  is  also 
introduced,  in  which  the  Jew,  seated  at  a  separate  table, 
drinks  to  his  Money  as  his  Only  Mistress.  Shylock,  which 
in  that  version  was  acted  by  Thomas  Doggett  [ 


was  made  a  comic  character,  and  wore  a  red  wig.  Macklin  's 
great  performance  reinstated  the  part  as  one  of  tragical 
conception,  and  had  the  effect  of  banishing  Lansdow?ie>s 
distortion  forever  from  the  stage.  John  Philip  Kemble 
made  an  acting  copy  of  "  The  Merchant  of  Venice"  in  1795. 
The  original  representative  of  Shylock  was  Burbage  — 


PREFACE.  7 

who  dressed  it  with  a  red  wig  and  a  false  nose.  Shylock 
has  been  greatly  acted  by  Henderson,  George  Frederick 
Cooke,  Edmund  Kean,  and  Junius  Brutus  Booth.  Of 
Kean  in  Shylock  —  in  which  part,  at  Drury  Lane,  he 
made  his  first  great  hit  \_January  26th,  1814],  Douglas 
Jerrold  used  to  say  that  he  impressed  his  audience  "  like  a 
chapter  of  Genesis."  "  The  elder  Booth's  Shylock"  says 
Gould,  " was  the  representative  Hebrew"  " a  type  of  the 
religion  of  the  law"  and  instinct  with  "  the  might  of  a 
people  whom  neither  time,  nor  scorn,  nor  political  oppres- 
sion could  subdue"  Bogumil  Dawison,  on  the  German 
stage,  was  famous  as  the  Jew  ;  and  the  Shylock  of  James 
W.  Wallack,  likewise,  is  memorable  among  the  most 
affecting  personations  that  have  graced  the  stage  in  this 
century. 

W.   W. 
New  York,  October  jot  A,  1878. 


•note. 

As  originally  published,  in  1878,  Edwin  Booth?  s  Prompt- 
Book  of  ' '  The  Merchant  of  Venice ' '  comprised  only  four 
acts  of  Shakespeare1  s  comedy,  and  it  ended  with  Shylock? 's 
exit  after  the  Trial,  the  last  line  spoken  being  Gratiano's 
"To  bring  thee  to  the  gallows,  not  the  font.'"  In  1887, 
however,  after  forming  his  professional  alliance  with  Law- 
rence Barrett,  he  amended  his  Prompt-Book  of  this  play  by 
restoring  the  conclusion  of  the  fourth  act  and  the  whole  of 
the  fifth.  My  Preface  to  the  original  book  contained  this 
paragraph : 

To  the  reverential  student  of  Shakespeare  this  version 


&  NOTfi. 

of 'The  Merchant  of  Venice'  will  seem  little  better  than  a 
mutilation.  While,  however,  much  has  been  omitted,  noth- 
ing has  been  introduced.  If  the  piece  does  not  go  as  far  as 
might  be  desired,  it  is,  at  least,  faithful  to  Shakespeare,  as 
far  as  it  goes.  The  object  sought  has  been  the  construction 
of  an  acting  copy,  suitable  for  the  use  of  leading  tragedians, 
in  which  the  position  of  chief  prominence  is  assigned  to  the 
character  of  Shy  lock.  lThe  Merchant  of  Venice' — aside 
from  some  aspects  of  the  treatment  of  the  Jew — is  pure 
comedy ;  and,  when  given  entire,  it  should  be  acted  by  a 
company  of  excellent  comedians.  The  part  of  Shy  lock  would 
naturally  fall  to  the  'character*  actor  in  such  a  company  ; 
but  it  would  not  largely  overshadow  its  companion  parts — 
supposing  every  portion  of  the  piece  to  receive  competent  and 
careful  treatment.  When,  on  the  other  hand,  this  play  is 
acted  chiefly  for  the  purpose  of  illustrating  Shylock,  a  judi- 
cious compression  of  the  scenes  is  found  not  only  expedient 
but  highly  desirable.  Such  a  compression — with  this  view 
and  for  this  reason — has  been  attempted  here.  It  will  be 
found,  though,  that  the  story,  while  told  with  brevity,  has 
not  been  impaired  in  substance.  The  incidents  of  the  bond 
and  the  caskets  are  duly  displayed,  and  the  poef  s  great  skill 
in  combining  them  is  suitably  exhibited.  This  version  is  in 
four  acts,  and  it  can  be  represented  in  two  hours  and  a 
quarter.  W.  W. 


"She  was  a  form  of  life  and  light 
Thai  seen  became  a  fart  of  sight, 
And  rose,  where'er  I  turned  mine  eye, 
The  morning-star  of  memory.1'' — BYRON. 

"  Sweet  pain  of  love,  bind  thou  with  fetters  fleet 
The  heart  that  on  the  dew  of  hope  must  pine." — GOETHE. 

1 '  O  happy  hoitr  !  and  happier  hours 
Await  them.     Many  a  merry  face 
Salutes  them, — maidens  of  the  place, 
That  pelt  us  in  the  porch  with  flowers.'1'' — TENNYSON. 

"  Wilt  thou  go  on  -with  me  ? 
The  moon  is  bright,  the  sea  is  calm, 
And  I  know  well  the  ocean  paths.     *    *    * 
Thou  wilt  go  on  with  me  /"' — SouTHEY. 


"  The  hunted  fox,  the  tortured  wild-cat,  loves  its  young — the  despised 
and  persecuted  race  of  Abraham  love  their  children.  *  *  *  Wfien  the 
day  comes,  and  I  ask  my  own,  then  what  hear  I  but  damned  Jew,  and 
the  curse  of  Egypt  on  your  tribe.'11 — SCOTT. 

"fie  hath  his  armour  on — 
/  am  his  sword,  shield,  helm  ;  I  but  enclose 
Myself,  and  my  own  heart,  and  heart1 s  blood,  when 
I  thus  encompass  him     *     *    * 

Each  for  the  other  thus, 
And  in  that  other  for  his  dearer  self." 

BANIM — IN  "  DAMON  AND  PYTHIAS." 

"And  at  the  last  ten  thousand  crowns 

They  offered  him  to  save  : 
Gernutus  said,   '/  will  no  gold, 
My  forfeit  I  will  have.''  " 

THE  BALLAD  OF  GERNUTUS. 

"Gentle  deed 
Makes  gentle  bleid." 

OLD  SCOTTISH  PROVERB. 

"Anguish  is  come  upon  me,  because  my  life  is  yet  whole  in  me.  *  *  * 
I  was  sure  that  he  could  not  live,  after  that  he  was  fallen.'1'' — II  SAM- 
UEL, /,  9,  10. 


persons  IRepresenteo* 

DUKE  OF  VENICE. 

ANTONIO,  the  Merchant  of  Venice,  Friend  to  Bassanio. 

BASSANIO,  Friend  to  Antonio. 

GRATIANO,    ^ 

Venetian  Gentlemen.  Friends  to  Antonio  and 
SALARINO,      > 

Bassanio. 
SOLANIO, 

SALERIO, 
SHYLOCK,  a  Jew. 
TUBAL,  a  Jew,  Friend  to  Shy  lock. 
LAUNCELOT  GOBBO,  Servant  to  Shylock. 
OLD  GOBBO,  Father  to  Launcelot. 
LEONARDO,  Servant  to  Bassanio. 
BALTHAZAR,  Servant  to  Portia. 
PORTIA,  a  rich  Heiress. 
NERISSA,  her  Friend  and  Companion. 
JESSICA,  Daughter  to  Shylock. 

MAGNIFICOES   OF  VENICE,  OFFICERS   OF   THE   COURT   or 
JUSTICE,  LORDS,  LADIES  and  ATTENDANTS. 

place  ano  Uime. 

SCENE. — Partly  in  Venice,  and  partly  at  Portia's  villa, 

named  Belmont,  on  the  adjacent  main- land. 
PERIOD. — The  Sixteenth  Century. 
TIME  OF  ACTION. — A  little  more  than  three  months. 


THE    MERCHANT   OF  VENICE, 


ffctft. 

JFtret.  —  VENICE.    A  STREET. 

[Enter  Antonio,  Salarino,  and  Solanio, 
Ant. 

In  sooth,  I  know  not  why  I  am  so  sad  : 
It  wearies  me  ;  you  say  it  wearies  you  : 
But  how  I  caught  it,  found  it,  or  came  by  it, 
What  stuff  't  is  made  of,  whereof  it  is  born, 
I  am  to  learn; 

And  such  a  want-  wit  sadness  makes  of  me, 
That  I  have  much  ado  to  know  myself. 

Salarino. 

Your  mind  is  tossing  on  the  ocean  ; 
There,  where  your  argosies  with  portly  sail 
Do  overpeer  the  petty  traffickers, 
That  curt'sy  to  them,  do  them  reverence, 
As  they  fly  by  them  with  their  woven  wings. 

Solanio. 

Believe  me,  sir,  had  I  such  venture  forth, 
The  better  part  of  my  affections  would 


12  THE  MERCHANT   OF  VENICE. 

Be  with  my  hopes  abroad.     I  should  be  still 
Plucking  the  grass  to  know  where  sits  the  wind ; 
Peering  into  maps  for  ports,  and  piers,  and  roads ; 
And  every  object  that  might  make  me  fear 
Misfortune  to  my  ventures,  out  of  doubt, 
Would  make  sad. 

Salarino. 

My  wind,  cooling  my  broth, 

Would  blow  me  to  an  ague  when  I  thought 

What  harm  a  wind  too  great  might  do  at  sea. 

I  should  not  see  the  sandy  hour-glass  run 

But  I  should  think  of  shallows  and  of  flats, 

And  see  her  wealthy  Andrew  docked  in  sand, 

Veiling  her  high  top  lower  than  her  ribs, 

To  kiss  her  burial. 

Shall  I  have  the  thought 

To  think  on  this  ?  and  shall  I  lack  the  thought, 

That  such  a  thing,  bechanced,  would  make  me  sad? 

But  tell  not  me  ;  I  know  Antonio 

Is  sad  to  think  upon  his  merchandise. 

Ant. 

Believe  me,  no  :  I  thank  my  fortune  for  it, 
My  ventures  are  not  in  one  bottom  trusted, 
Nor  to  one  place ;  nor  is  my  whole  estate 
Upon  the  fortune  of  this  present  year : 
Therefore  my  merchandise  makes  me  not  sad. 

Salarino. 
Why,  then  you  are  in  love. 

Ant. 
Fie,  fie  t 


THE  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  13 

Salarino. 

Not  in  love  neither  ?    Then  let  us  say,  you  are  sad 
Because  you  are  not  merry.     And  't  were  as  easy 
For  you  to  laugh,  and  leap,  and  say  you  are  merry 
Because  you  are  not  sad.     Now,  by  two-headed  Janus, 
Nature  hath  framed  strange  fellows  in  her  time  : 
Some  that  will  evermore  peep  through  their  eyes, 
And  laugh  like  parrots  at  a  bagpiper ; 
And  others  of  such  vinegar  aspect, 
That  they  '11  not  show  their  teeth  in  way  of  smile, 
Though  Nestor  swear  the  jest  be  laughable. 

Solanio. 

Here  comes  Bassanio,  your  most  noble  kinsman, 
Gratiano,  and  Lorenzo.     Fare  you  well ; 
We  leave  you  now  with  better  company. 

Salarino. 

I  would  have  stayed  till  I  had  made  you  merry,    [Crosses. 
If  worthier  friends  had  not  prevented  me. 

Ant. 

Your  worth  is  very  dear  in  my  regard. 
I  take  it  your  own  business  calls  on  you, 
And  you  embrace  th"  occasion  to  depart. 

\Enter  Bassanio,  Lorenzo,  and  Gratiano  L.  3  E. 

Salarino.  \To  them. 

Good-morrow,  my  good  lords. 

Bass. 

Good  signiors  both,  when  shall  we  laugh  ?    Say,  when  ? 
You  grow  exceeding  strange  :  Must  it  be  so? 


14  THE    MERCHANT    OF  VENICE. 

Salarino, 

We  '11  make  our  leisures  to  attend  on  yours. 

[Exeunt  Salarino  and  Solanio  R.  i.  E. 

Lor. 

My  lord  Bassanio,  since  you  have  found  Antonio, 
We  two  will  leave  you ;  but  at  dinner-time 
I  pray  you  have  in  mind  where  we  must  meet. 

Bass. 
I  will  not  fail  you. 

Gra. 

You  look  not  well,  signior  Antonio ; 
You  have  too  much  respect  upon  the  world : 
They  lose  it  that  do  buy  it  with  much  care. 
Believe  me,  you  are  marvellously  changed. 

Ant. 

I  hold  the  world  but  as  the  world,  Gratiano ; 
A  stage,  where  every  man  must  play  a  part, 
And  mine  a  sad  one. 

Gra. 

Let  me  play  the  Fool : 

With  mirth  and  laughter  let  old  wrinkles  come ; 
And  let  my  liver  rather  heat  with  wine 
Than  my  heart  cool  with  mortifying  groans. 
Why  should  a  man  whose  blood  is  warm  within 
Sit  like  his  grandsire  cut  in  alabaster  ? 
Sleep  when  he  wakes,  and  creep  into  the  jaundice 
By  being  peevish  ?     I  tell  thee  what,  Antonio, — 
I  love  thee,  and  it  is  my  love  that  speaks, — 
There  are  a  sort  of  men,  whose  visages 
Do  cream  and  mantle  like  a  standing  pond; 
And  do  a  wilful  stillness  entertain, 
With  purpose  to  be  dressed  in  an  opinion 
Of  wisdom,  gravity,  profound  conceit : 
As  who  should  say,   "  I  am  Sir  Oracle, 
And  when  I  ope  my  lips,  let  no  dog  bark ! " 


THE    MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  15 

O,  my  Antonio,  I  do  know  of  these, 

That  therefore  only  are  reputed  wise 

For  saying  nothing ;  when,  I  am  very  sure, 

If  they  should  speak,  would  almost  damn  those  ears, 

Which,  hearing  them,  would  call  their  brothers  fools. 

I  '11  tell  thee  more  of  this  another  time : 

But  fish  not  with  this  melancholy  bait, 

For  this  fool-gudgeon,  this  opinion. 

Come,  good  Lorenzo  :  —  Fare  ye  well  a  while ; 

I  '11  end  my  exhortation  after  dinner. 

Lor. 

Well,  we  will  leave  you,  then,  till  dinner-time : 
I  must  be  one  of  these  same  dumb  wise  men, 
For  Gratiano  never  lets  me  speak. 

Gra. 

Well,  keep  me  company  but  two  years  more, 
Thou  shalt  not  know  the  sound  of  thine  own  tongue. 

Ant. 
Farewell :  I  '11  grow  a  talker  for  this  gear. 

Gra. 

Thanks,  i'  faith ;  for  silence  is  only  commendable 
In  a  neat's  tongue  dried,  and  a  maid  not  vendible. 

\Exeunt  Gratiano  and  Lorenzo  R. 

Ant. 
Is  that  any  thing  now  ? 

Bass. 

Gratiano  speaks  an  infinite  deal  of  nothing,  more  than 
any  man  in  all  Venice.  His  reasons  are  as  two  grains  of 
wheat  hid  in  two  bushels  of  chaff;  you  shall  seek  all  day 
ere  you  find  them,  and  when  you  have  them,  they  are  not 
worth  the  search. 

Ant. 

Well,  tell  me  now,  what  lady  is  the  same 
To  whom  you  swore  a  secret  pilgrimage, 
That  you  to-day  promised  to  tell  me  of? 


1 6  THE    MERCHANT    OF   VENICE. 

Bass. 

'T  is  not  unknown  to  you,  Antonio, 
How  much  I  have  disabled  mine  estate, 
By  something  showing  a  more  swelling  port 
Than  my  faint  means  would  grant  continuance : 
Nor  do  I  now  make  moan  to  be  abridged 
From  such  a  noble  rate ;  but  my  chief  care 
Is  to  come  fairly  off  from  the  great  debts 
Wherein  my  time,  something  too  prodigal, 
Hath  left  me  gaged.     To  you,  Antonio, 
I  owe  the  most  in  money  and  in  love ; 
And  from  your  love  I  have  a  warranty 
To  unburthen  all  my  plots  and  purposes, 
How  to  get  clear  of  all  the  debts  I  owe. 

Ant. 

I  pray  you,  good  Bassanio,  let  me  know  it; 
And,  if  it  stand,  as  you  yourself  still  do, 
Within  the  eye  of  honour,  be  assured 
My  purse,  my  person,  my  extremest  means, 
Lie  all  unlocked  to  your  occasions. 

Bass. 

In  my  school-days,  when  I  had  lost  one  shaft, 

I  shot  his  fellow  of  the  self-same  flight 

The  self-same  way,  with  more  advised  watch 

To  find  the  other  forth ;  and,  by  adventuring  both, 

I  oft  found  both :  I  urge  this  childhood  proof, 

Because  what  follows  is  pure  innocence. 

I  owe  you  much ;  and,  like  a  wilful  youth, 

That  which  I  owe  is  lost :  but  if  you  please 

To  shoot  another  arrow  that  self-way 

Which  you  did  shoot  the  first,  I  do  not  doubt, 

As  I  will  watch  the  aim,  or  to  find  both, 

Or  bring  your  latter  hazard  back  again, 

And  thankfully  rest  debtor  for  the  first. 

Ant. 

You  know  me  well,  and  herein  spend  but  time, 
To  wind  about  my  love  with  circumstance  j 


THE    MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  17 

And,  out  of  doubt,  you  do  me  now  more  wrong 
In  making  question  of  my  uttermost, 
Than  if  you  had  made  waste  of  all  I  have. 
Then  do  but  say  to  me  what  I  should  do, 
That  in  your  knowledge  may  by  me  be  done, 
And  I  am  prest  unto  it :  therefore  speak. 

Bass. 

In  Belmont  is  a  lady  richly  left, 

And  she  is  fair,  and,  fairer  than  that  word, 

Of  wond'rous  virtues.     Sometimes  from  her  eyes 

I  did  receive  fair  speechless  messages  : 

Her  name  is  Portia ;  nothing  undervalued 

To  Cato's  daughter,  Brutus'  Portia. 

Nor  is  the  wide  world  ignorant  of  her  worth ; 

For  the  four  winds  blow  in  from  every  coast 

Renowned  suitors. 

O,  my  Antonio  !  had  I  but  the  means 

To  hold  a  rival  place  with  one  of  them, 

I  have  a  mind  presages  me  such  thrift, 

That  I  should  questionless  be  fortunate. 

Ant. 

Thou  know'st  that  all  my  fortunes  are  at  sea ; 
Neither  have  I  money,  nor  commodity 
To  raise  a  present  sum  :  therefore,  go  forth ; 
Try  what  my  credit  can  in  Venice  do  ; 
That  shall  be  racked,  even  to  the  uttermost, 
To  furnish  thee  to  Belmont,  to  fair  Portia. 
Go,  presently  inquire,  and  so  will  I, 
Where  money  is ;  and  I  no  question  make, 
To  have  it  of  my  trust,  or  for  my  sake. 

[Exeunt,  Antonio  L.,  and  Bassanio  R. 


§>ec0nU. — BELMONT.    A  ROOM  IN  PORTIA'S  HOUSE. 

[Enter  Portia  and  Nerissa. 
Par. 

By  my  troth,  Nerissa,  my  little  body  is  a- weary  of  this 
great  world. 


1 8  THE   MERCHANT   OF   VENICE. 

Ner. 

You  would  be,  sweet  madam,  if  your  miseries  were  in 
the  same  abundance  as  your  good  fortunes  are.  And  yet, 
for  aught  I  see,  they  are  as  sick  that  surfeit  with  too  much, 
as  they  that  starve  with  nothing.  It  is  no  small  happi- 
ness, therefore,  to  be  seated  in  the  mean ;  superfluity  comes 
sooner  by  white  hairs,  but  competency  lives  longer. 

For. 
Good  sentences,  and  well  pronounced. 

Ner. 
They  would  be  better,  if  well  followed. 

For. 

If  to  do  were  as  easy  as  to  know  what  were  good  to 
do,  chapels  had  been  churches,  and  poor  men's  cottages 
princes'  palaces.  It  is  a  good  divine  that  follows  his  own 
instructions.  I  can  easier  teach  twenty  what  were  good 
to  be  done,  than  be  one  of  the  twenty  to  follow  mine  own 
teaching.  But  this  reasoning  is  not  in  the  fashion  to 
choose  me  a  husband :  —  O  me,  the  word  choose !  I  may 
neither  choose  whom  I  would,  nor  refuse  whom  I  dislike ; 
so  is  the  will  of  a  living  daughter  curbed  by  the  will  of  a 
dead  father.  Is  it  not  hard,  Nerissa,  that  I  cannot  choose 
one,  nor  refuse  none  ? 

Ner. 

Your  father  was  ever  virtuous ;  and  holy  men  at  their 
death  have  good  inspirations ;  therefore,  the  lottery  that 
he  hath  devised  in  these  three  chests,  of  gold,  silver,  and 
lead  (whereof  who  chooses  his  meaning,  chooses  you), 
will,  no  doubt,  never  be  chosen  by  any  rightly,  but  one 
who  you  shall  rightly  love.  But  what  warmth  is  there  in 
your  affection  towards  any  of  these  princely  suitors  that 
are  already  come  ? 

For. 

I  pray  thee,  overname  them;  and  as  thou  namest  them 
I  will  describe  them;  and  according  to  my  description 
level  at  my  affection. 


THE    MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  19 

Ner. 

First,  there  is  the  Neapolitan  prince. 
For. 

Ay,  that 's  a  colt,  indeed,  for  he  doth  nothing  but  talk 
of  his  horse;  and  he  makes  it  a  great  appropriation  to  his 
own  good  parts  that  he  can  shoe  him  himself.  I  am 
much  afraid  my  lady  his  mother  played  false  with  a  smith. 

Ner. 
Then,  is  there  the  County  Palatine. 

For. 

He  doth  nothing  but  frown;  as  who  should  say,  "An 
you  will  not  have  me,  choose."  He  hears  merry  tales, 
and  smiles  not :  I  fear  he  will  prove  the  weeping  philoso- 
pher when  he  grows  old,  being  so  full  of  unmannerly  sad- 
ness in  his  youth.  I  had  rather  be  married  to  a  death's 
head  with  a  bone  in  his  mouth  than  to  either  of  these. 
Heaven  defend  me  from  these  two ! 

Ner. 
How  say  you  by  the  French  lord,  Monsieur  le  Bon  ? 

For. 

Heaven  made  him,  and  therefore  let  him  pass  for  a  man. 

Ner. 

How  like  you  the  young  German,  the  Duke  of  Saxony's 
nephew  ? 

For. 

Very  vilely  in  the  morning,  when  he  is  sober;  and  most 
vilely  in  the  afternoon,  when  he  is  drunk :  when  he  is  best 
he  is  a  little  worse  than  a  man ;  and  when  he  is  worst  he 
is  little  better  than  a  beast.  An  the  worst  fall  that  ever 
fell,  I  hope  1  shall  make  shift  to  go  without  him. 


2O  THE   MERCHANT   OF   VENICE. 

Ner. 

If  he  should  offer  to  choose,  and  choose  the  right  casket, 
you  should  refuse  to  perform  your  father's  will,  if  you 
should  refuse  to  accept  him. 

Por. 

Therefore,  for  fear  of  the  worst,  I  pray  thee  set  a  deep 
glass  of  Rhenish  wine  on  the  contrary  casket :  for,  if  the 
devil  be  within,  and  that  temptation  without,  I  know  he 
will  choose  it. 

Ner. 

You  need  not  fear,  lady,  the  having  any  of  these  lords; 
they  have  acquainted  me  with  their  determinations :  which 
is,  indeed,  to  return  to  their  home,  and  to  trouble  you 
with  no  more  suit;  unless  you  may  be  won  by  some 
other  sort  than  your  father's  imposition,  depending  on  the 
caskets. 

Por. 

If  I  live  to  be  as  old  as  Sibylla  I  will  die  as  chaste  as 
Diana,  unless  I  be  obtained  by  the  manner  of  my  father's 
will.  I  am  glad  this  parcel  of  wooers  are  so  reasonable; 
for  there  is  not  one  among  them  but  I  dote  on  his  very 
absence,  and  I  wish  them  a  fair  departure. 

Ner. 

Do  you  not  remember,  lady,  in  your  father's  time,  a 
Venetian,  a  scholar,  and  a  soldier,  that  came  hither  in 
company  of  the  Marquis  of  Montferrat  ? 

Por. 

Yes,  yes ;  it  was  Bassanio  ;  as  I  think,  so  was  he 
called. 

Ner. 

True,  madam ;  he,  of  all  the  men  that  ever  my  foolish 
eyes  looked  upon,  was  the  best  deserving  a  fair  lady. 


THE    MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  21 

For. 

I  remember  him  well ;  and  I  remember  him  worthy  of 
thy  praise. 

[Enter  Balthazar  L.  I.E. 
How  now  ?  what  news  ?  [  To  hint. 

Bal. 

The  four  strangers  seek  you,  madam,  to  take  their 
leave ;  and  there  is  a  forerunner  come  from  a  fifth,  the 
Prince  of  Morocco ;  who  brings  word  the  prince,  his  mas 
ter,  will  be  here  to-night. 

Por. 

,  If  I  could  bid  the  fifth  welcome  with  so  good  heart  as  I 
can  bid  the  other  four  farewell,  I  should  be  glad  of  his 
approach :  if  he  have  the  condition  of  a  saint,  and  the 
complexion  of  a  devil,  I  had  rather  he  should  shrive  me 
than  wive  me. 

Come,  Nerissa.     Sirrah,  go  before.  [To  Balthazar, 

Whiles  we   shut   the   gate   upon  one  wooer,  another 

knocks  at  the  door.  \Exeunt  L.  I,  E. 


S>cene  2C(rir&. — VENICE.     A  STREET. 

[Enter  Bassanio  and  Sky  lock  R.  u.  E 

Shy. 

Three  thousand  ducats,  —  well. 

Bass. 
Ay,  sir,  for  three  months. 

Shy. 
For  three  months, — well. 

Bass. 
For  the  which,  as  I  told  you,  Antonio  shall  be  bound. 


22  THE    MERCHANT   OF   VENICE. 

Shy. 

Antonio  shall  become  bound, — well. 
Bass. 

May  you  stead  me  ?     Will  you  pleasure  me  ?     Shall  I 
know  your  answer  ? 

Shy, 

Three  thousand  ducats,  for  three  months,  and  Antonio 
bound. 

Bass. 
Your  answer  to  that. 

Shy. 
Antonio  is  a  good  man. 

Bass. 

Have  you  heard  any  imputation  to  the  contrary  ? 
Shy. 

0  no,  no,  no,  no; — my  meaning  in  saying  he  is  a 
good  man  is,  to  have  you  understand  me  that  he  is  suffi- 
cient:  yet  his  means  are  in  supposition:   he  hath   an 
argosy  bound  to  Tripolis,  another  to  the  Indies ;  I  under- 
stand, moreover,  upon   the   Rialto,  he  hath  a  third  at 
Mexico,  a  fourth  for  England;   and  other  ventures  he 
hath,   squandered   abroad.      But  ships   are  but  boards, 
sailors  but  men :  there  be  land-rats  and  water-rats,  water- 
thieves  and  Ian d- thieves ;  I  mean,  pirates;  and  then,  there 
is  the  peril  of  waters,  winds,  and  rocks :  the  man  is,  not- 
withstanding, sufficient ;  —  three    thousand  ducats ;  —  I 
think  I  may  take  his  bond. 

Bass. 
Be  assured  you  may. 

Shy. 

1  will  be  assured  I  may ;  and  that  I  may  be  assured,  I 
will  bethink  me.     May  I  speak  with  Antonio  ? 

Bass. 
If  it  please  you  to  dine  with  us. 


THE    MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  23 

Shy. 

Yes,  to  smell  pork !  to  eat  of  the  habitation  which  your 
prophet,  the  Nazarite,  conjured  the  devil  into!  I  will 
buy  with  you,  sell  with  you,  talk  with  you,  walk  with  you, 
and  so  following;  but  I  will  not  eat  with  you,  drink  with 
you,  nor  pray  with  you. — What  news  on  the  Rialto  ?  — 

Who  is  he  comes  here  ? 

Bass. 

This  is  signior  Antonio.  [Exit  Bassanio  L.  i.  E. 

Shy. 

How  like  a  fawning  publican  he  looks ! 

I  hate  him  for  he  is  a  Christian : 

But  more,  for  that,  in  low  simplicity, 

He  lends  out  money  gratis,  and  brings  down 

The  rate  of  usance  here  with  us  in  Venice. 

If  I  can  catch  him  once  upon  the  hip, 

I  will  feed  fat  the  ancient  grudge  I  bear  him. 

He  hates  our  sacred  nation ;  and  he  rails, 

Even  there  where  merchants  most  do  congregate, 

On  me,  my  bargains,  and  my  well-won  thrift, 

Which  he  calls  interest.     Cursed  be  my  tribe 

If  I  forgive  him ! 

[Re-enter  Bassanio  with  Antonio  L.  i.  E. 

Bass. 
Shylock,  do  you  hear  ? 

Shy. 

I  am  debating  of  my  present  store : 

And,  by  the  near  guess  of  my  memory, 

I  cannot  instantly  raise  up  the  gross 

Of  full  three  thousand  ducats.     What  of  that  ? 

Tubal,  a  wealthy  Hebrew  of  my  tribe, 

Will  furnish  me.     But,  soft ;  how  many  months 

Do  you  desire  ? 

Rest  you  fair,  good  signior :  [  To  Antonio. 

Your  worship  was  the  last  man  in  our  mouths. 


24  THE    MERCHANT    OF   VENICE. 

Ant. 

Shylock,  albeit  I  neither  lend  nor  borrow, 
By  taking  nor  by  giving  of  excess, 
Yet,  to  supply  the  ripe  wants  of  my  friend, 
I  '11  break  a  custom :  —  Is  he  yet  possessed 
How  much  you  would  ?  [To  Bassanio. 

Shy. 

Ay,  ay,  three  thousand  ducats. 

Ant. 

And  for  three  months.  [To  Shylock. 

Shy. 

I  had  forgot,  —  three  months;  you  told  me  so. 

[To  Bassanio 

Well  then,  your  bond ;  and,  let  me  see. 
But  hear  you.  [  To  Antonio. 

Methought  you  said,  you  neither  lend  nor  borrow 
Upon  advantage. 

Ant. 
I  do  never  use  it. 

Shy. 

When  Jacob  grazed  his  uncle  Laban's  sheep, — 
This  Jacob  from  our  holy  Abraham  was 
(As  his  wise  mother  wrought  in  his  behalf) 
The  third  possessor;  ay,  he  was  the  third. 

Ant. 
And  what  of  him  ?  did  he  take  interest  ? 

Sky. 

No,  not  take  interest ;  not,  as  you  would  say, 

Directly  interest :  mark  what  Jacob  did. 

When  Laban  and  himself  were  compromised, 

That  all  the  eanlings  which  were  streaked  and  pied 

Should  fall  as  Jacob's  hire, 

The  skilful  shepherd  pilled  me  certain  wands, 

And,  in  the  doing  of  the  deed  of  kind, 


THE    MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  25 

He  stuck  them  up  before  the  fulsome  ewes, 
Who,  then  conceiving,  did  in  eaning-time 
Fall  parti-coloured  lambs,  and  those  were  Jacob's. 
This  was  a  way  to  thrive,  and  he  was  blest; 
And  thrift  is  blessing,  if  men  steal  it  not. 

Ant. 

This  was  a  venture,  sir,  that  Jacob  served  for; 

A  thing  not  in  his  power  to  bring  to  pass, 

But  swayed  and  fashioned  by  the  hand  of  Heaven. 

Was  this  inserted  to  make  interest  good  ? 

Or  is  your  gold  and  silver  ewes  and  rams  ? 

Shy. 
I  cannot  tell ;  I  make  it  breed  as  fast. 

Ant. 

Mark  you  this,  Bassanio, 
The  devil  can  cite  Scripture  for  his  purpose. 
An  evil  soul,  producing  holy  witness, 
Is  like  a  villain  with  a  smiling  cheek; 
A  goodly  apple  rotten  at  the  heart. 
O,  what  a  goodly  outside  falsehood  hath ! 

Shy.  [Aside. 

Three  thousand  ducats,  —  't  is  a  good  round  sum. 
Three  months  from  twelve,  then  let  me  see  the  rate. 

Ant. 

Well,  Shylock,  shall  we  be  beholden  to  you  ? 

Shy. 

Signior  Antonio,  many  a  time,  and  oft 
In  the  Rialto,  you  have  rated  me 
About  my  monies,  and  my  usances : 
Still  have  I  borne  it  with  a  patient  shrug, 
For  suff'rance  is  the  badge  of  all  our  tribe : 

[Showing  his  ye  How  cap. 


26  THE    MERCHANT    OF    VENICE. 

You  call  me  "  misbeliever,"  "  cut-throat  dog," 
And  spet  upon  my  Jewish  gaberdine, 
And  all  for  use  of  that  which  is  mine  own. 
Well,  then,  it  now  appears  you  need  my  help : 
Go  to,  then ;  you  come  to  me,  and  you  say 
"  Shylock,  we  would  have  monies ;  "  You  say  so  j 
You,  that  did  void  your  rheum  upon  my  beard, 
And  foot  me,  as  you  spurn  a  stranger  cur 
Over  your  threshold ;  monies  is  your  suit. 
What  should  I  say  to  you  ?     Should  I  not  say, 
"  Hath  a  dog  money  ?  is  it  possible 
A  cur  can  lend  three  thousand  ducats  ?  "  or 
Shall  I  bend  low,  and  in  a  bondman's  key, 
With  'bated  breath,  and  whispering  humbleness, 
Say  this, — 

"  Fair  sir,  you  spet  on  me  on  Wednesday  last ; 
You  spurned  me  such  a  day ;  another  time 
You  called  me  dog ;  and  for  these  courtesies 
I  '11  lend  you  thus  much  monies  ?  " 

Ant. 

I  am  as  like  to  call  thee  so  again, 

To  spet  on  thee  again,  to  spurn  thee  too. 

If  thou  wilt  lend  this  money,  lend  it  not 

As  to  thy  friends ;  (for  when  did  friendship  take 

A  breed  of  barren  metal  of  his  friend  ?) 

But  lend  it  rather  to  thine  enemy ; 

Who,  if  he  break,  thou  may'st  with  better  face 

Exact  the  penalties. 

Shy. 

Why,  look  you,  how  you  storm  ! 

I  would  be  friends  with  you,  and  have  your  love ; 

Forget  the  shames  that  you  have  stained  me  with ; 

Supply  your  present  wants,  and  take  no  doit 

Of  usance  for  my  monies,  and  you  '11  not  hear  me : 

This  is  kind  I  offer. 

Ant. 
This  were  kindness. 


THE   MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  27 

Shy. 

This  kindness  will  I  show : 
Go  with  me  to  a  notary :  seal  me  there 
Your  single  bond ;  and,  in  a  merry  sport, 
If  you  repay  me  not  on  such  a  day, 
In  such  a  place,  such  sum,  or  sums,  as  are 
Expressed  in  the  condition,  let  the  forfeit 
Be  nominated  for  an  equal  pound 
Of  your  fair  flesh,  to  be  cut  off  and  taken 
In  what  part  of  your  body  pleaseth  me. 

Ant. 

Content,  in  faith ;  I  '11  seal  to  such  a  bond, 
And  say  there  is  much  kindness  in  the  Jew. 

Bass.  [  Coming  down, 

You  shall  not  seal  to  such  a  bond  for  me ; 
I  '11  rather  dwell  in  my  necessity. 

Ant. 

Why,  fear  not,  man ;  I  will  not  forfeit  it : 
Within  these  two  months,  that 's  a  month  before 
This  bond  expires,  I  do  expect  return 
Of  thrice  three  times  the  value  of  this  bond. 

Shy. 

O  father  Abraham  !  what  these  Christians  are, 

Whose  own  hard  dealings  teaches  them  suspect 

The  thoughts  of  others !     Pray  you,  tell  me  this ; 

If  he  should  break  his  day,  what  should  I  gain 

By  the  exaction  of  the  forfeiture  ? 

A  pound  of  man's  flesh,  taken  from  a  man, 

Is  not  so  estimable,  profitable  neither, 

As  flesh  of  muttons,  beefs,  or  goats.     I  say, 

To  buy  his  favour  I  extend  this  friendship ; 

If  he  will  take  it,  so ;  if  not,  adieu ; 

And,  for  my  love,  I  pray  you  wrong  me  not. 

Ant. 
Yes,  Shylock,  I  will  seal  unto  this  bond. 


28  THE   MERCHANT   OF  VENICE. 

Shy. 

Then  meet  me  forthwith  at  the  notary's ; 
Give  him  direction  for  this  merry  bond, 
And  I  will  go  and  purse  the  ducats  straight  j 
See  to  my  house,  left  in  the  fearful  guard 
Of  an  unthrifty  knave ;  and  presently 
I  will  be  with  you.  [Going. 

Ant. 

Hie  thee,  gentle  Jew.        [Antonio  and  Bassanio  cross  to  R. 
This  Hebrew  will  turn  Christian ;  he  grows  kind. 

Bass. 

I  like  not  fair  terms  and  a  villain's  mind. 
Ant. 

Come  on ;  in  this  there  can  be  no  dismay ; 
My  ships  come  home  a  month  before  the  day. 

[Exeunt  Antonio  and  Bassanio  R.  i.  E.     Shy  lock 
gazes  after  them.     Picture. 

CURTAIN. 


jr.  „       <  VENICE.     A  STREET,  IN  FRONT  OF  SHY- 
t  xiw.  j     LQCK>S  HOUSE- 

[Enter  Launcelot  Gobbo  from  house  R.  3.  E. 
Laun. 

Certainly  my  conscience  will  serve  me  to  run  from  this 
Jew,  my  master.  The  fiend  is  at  mine  elbow,  and  tempts 
me ;  saying  to  me, — "  Gobbo,  Launcelot  Gobbo,  good 
Launcelot,  or  good  Gobbo,  or  good  Launcelot  Gobbo, 
use  your  legs,  take  the  start,  run  away."  My  conscience 
says, — "  No ;  take  heed,  honest  Launcelot ;  take  heed, 
honest  Gobbo ;  or  (as  aforesaid)  honest  Launcelot  Gobbo ; 
do  not  run  :  scorn  running  with  thy  heels."  Well,  the 
most  courageous  fiend  bids  me  pack.  "  Via ! "  says  the 
fiend;  "away!"  says  the  fiend,  " for  the  heavens ;  rouse 
up  a  brave  mind,"  says  the  fiend,  "  and  run."  Well,  my 
conscience,  hanging  about  the  neck  of  my  heart,  says  very 
wisely  to  me, — "  My  honest  friend,  Launcelot,  being  an 
honest  man's  son,"  or  rather  an  honest  woman's  son ;  — 
for,  indeed,  my  father  did  something  smack,  something 
grow  to,  he  had  a  kind  of  taste;  —  well,  my  conscience 
says,  "  Launcelot,  budge  not : "  "  Budge,"  says  the  fiend ; 
"  Budge  not,"  says  my  conscience.  Conscience,  say  I, 
you  counsel  well ;  fiend,  say  I,  you  counsel  well :  to  be 
ruled  by  my  conscience,  I  should  stay  with  the  Jew,  my 
master,  who  (bless  the  mark!)  is  a  kind  of  devil;  and 
to  run  away  from  the  Jew  I  should  be  ruled  by  the  fiend ; 
who,  saving  your  reverence,  is  the  devil  himself.  Cer- 
tainly, the  Jew  is  the  very  devil  incarnation :  and,  in 


30  THE    MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

my  conscience,  my  conscience  is  a  kind  of  hard  con- 
science, to  offer  to  counsel  me  to  stay  with  the  Jew.  The 
fiend  gives  the  more  friendly  counsel :  I  will  run,  fiend ; 
my  heels  are  at  your  commandment ;  I  will  run. 

[Enter  Old  Gobbo,  with  a  basket,  R.  I.E. 

Gob. 

Master,  young  man,  you,  I  pray  you ;  which  is  the  way 
to  master  Jew's  ? 

Latin.  [Aside. 

O  heavens,  this  is  my  true-begotten  father !  who,  being 
more  than  sand-blind,  high-gravel  blind,  knows  me  not : 
I  will  try  confusions  with  him. 

Gob. 

Master,  young  gentleman,  I  pray  you,  which  is  the  way 
to  master  Jew's  ? 

Laun. 

Turn  upon  your  right  hand  at  the  next  turning,  but,  at 
the  next  turning  of  all,  on  your  left ;  marry,  at  the  very 
next  turning,  turn  of  no  hand,  but  turn  down  indirectly  to 
the  Jew's  house. 

Gob. 

By  sonties,  't  will  be  a  hard  way  to  hit.  Can  you  tell 
me  whether  one  Launcelot  that  dwells  with  him  dwell 
with  him,  or  no  ? 

Laun. 

Talk  you  of  young  master  Launcelot? — Mark  me 
now — [Aside.] — now  will  I  raise  the  waters :  [To  Gobbo\ 
— Talk  you  of  young  master  Launcelot  ? 

Gob. 

No  master,  sir,  but  a  poor  man's  son :  his  father,  though 
I  say't,  is  an  honest  exceeding  poor  man,  and,  heaven 
be  thanked,  well  to  live. 


THE    MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  31 

Laun. 

Well,  let  his  father  be  what  'a  will,  we  talk  of  young 
master  Launcelot. 

Gob. 

Your  worship's  friend,  and  Launcelot,  sir. 
Laun. 

But  I  pray  you,  ergo,  old  man,  ergo,  I  beseech  you,  talk 
you  of  young  master  Launcelot 3 

Gob. 

Of  Launcelot,  an 't  please  your  mastership. 
Laun. 

Ergo,  master  Launcelot ;  talk  not  of  master  Launcelot, 
father ;  for  the  young  gentleman  (according  to  fates  and 
destinies,  and  such  odd  sayings,  the  sisters  three,  and  such 
branches  of  learning)  is,  indeed,  deceased ;  or,  as  you 
would  say  in  plain  terms,  gone  to  heaven. 

Gob. 

Marry,  heaven  forbid ;  the  boy  was  the  very  staff  of 
my  age,  my  very  prop. 

Laun.  [Aside. 

Do  I  look  like  a  cudgel,  or  a  hovel-post,  a  staff,  or  a 
prop  ?  —  [To  Gobbo.]  Do  you  know  me,  father  ? 

Gob. 

Alack  the  day !  I  know  you  not,  young  gentleman  :  but, 
I  pray  you,  tell  me,  is  my  boy  (heaven  rest  his  soul !J 
alive  or  dead  ? 

Laun. 

Do  you  not  know  me,  father  ? 
Gob. 
Alack,  sir,  I  am  sand-blind ;  I  know  you  not. 


32  THE   MERCHANT   OF   VENICE. 

Laun. 

Nay,  indeed,  if  you  had  your  eyes,  you  might  fail  of  the 
knowing  me :  it  is  a  wise  father  that  knows  his  own  child. 
Well,  old  man,  I  will  tell  you  news  of  your  son  :  Give  me 
your  blessing :  truth  will  come  to  light ;  murder  cannot 
be  hid  long ;  a  man's  son  may ;  but,  in  the  end,  truth  will 
out.  \Launcelot  kneels  with  his  back  towards  Gobbo. 

Gob. 

Pray  you,  sir,  stand  up ;  I  am  sure  you  are  not  Launce- 
lot,  my  boy. 

Laun. 

Pray  you,  let 's  have  no  more  fooling  about  it,  but  give 
me  your  blessing;  I  am  Launcelot,  your  boy  that  was, 
your  son  that  is,  your  child  that  shall  be. 

Gob. 
I  cannot  think  you  are  my  son. 

Laun. 

I  know  not  what  I  shall  think  of  that :  but  I  am  Laun- 
celot, the  Jew's  man ;  and  I  am  sure  Margery,  your  wife, 
is  my  mother. 

Gob. 

Her  name  is  Margery,  indeed ;  I  '11  be  sworn,  if  thou  be 
Launcelot,  thou  art  mine  own  flesh  and  blood.  Lord 
worshipped  might  he  be !  what  a  beard  hast  thou  got ! 
thou  hast  got  more  hair  on  thy  chin  than  Dobbin,  my 
phill-horse,  has  on  his  tail. 

Laun. 

It  should  seem,  then,  that  Dobbin's  tail  grows  back- 
ward ;  I  am  sure  he  had  more  hair  of  his  tail  than  I  have 
of  my  face,  when  I  last  saw  him. 

Gob. 

Lord,  how  art  thou  changed !  How  dost  thou  and  thy 
master  agree  ?  I  have  brought  him  a  present.  How 
'gree  you  now  ? 


THE   MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  33 

Laun. 

Well,  well ;  but  for  mine  own  part,  as  I  have  set  up  my 
rest  to  run  away,  so  I  will  not  rest  till  I  have  run  some 
ground.  My  master 's  a  very  Jew.  Give  him  a  present  ? 
give  him  a  halter!  I  am  famished  in  his  service;  you 
may  tell  every  finger  I  have  with  my  ribs.  Father,  I  am 
glad  you  are  come :  give  me  your  present  to  one  master 
Bassanio,  who,  indeed,  gives  rare  new  liveries;  if  I  serve 
not  him,  I  will  run  as  far  as  heaven  has  any  ground. —  O 
rare  fortune !  here  comes  the  man  ;  —  to  him,  father;  for  I 
am  a  Jew  if  I  serve  the  Jew  any  longer. 

\Enter   Bassanio,   with    Leonardo    and  another 
Servant  R.  u.  E. 

Bass.  [To  Servant. 

See  these  letters  delivered  :  put  the  liveries  to  making ; 
and  desire  Gratiano  to  come  anon  to  my  lodging. 

[  Gives  letters.     Exit  Servant. 

Laun. 
To  him,  father. 

Gob. 

Heaven  bless  your  worship !  [To  Bassanio. 

Bass. 
Gramercy !  wouldst  thou  aught  with  me  ? 

Gob. 
Here 's  my  son,  sir,  a  poor  boy 

Laun. 

Not  a  poor  boy,  sir,  but  the  rich  Jew's  man ;  that  would, 
sir,  as  my  father  shall  specify 

Gob. 

He  hath  a  great  infection,  sir,  as  one  would  say,  to 
serve 


34 


THE    MERCHANT    OF   VENICE. 


Laun. 

Indeed,  the  short  and  the  long  is,  I  serve  the  Jew,  and 
have  a  desire,  as  my  father  shall  specify 

Gob. 

His  master  and  he  (saving  your  worship's  reverence)  are 

scarce  cater-cousins 

Laun. 

To  be  brief,  the  very  truth  is,  that  the  Jew  having  done 
me  wrong,  doth  cause  me,  as  my  father,  being  I  hope  an 
old  man,  shall  frutify  unto  you 

Gob. 

I  have  here  a  dish  of  doves,  that  I  would  bestow  upon 
your  worship ;  and  my  suit  is 

Laun. 

In  very  brief,  the  suit  is  impertinent  to  myself,  as  your 
worship  shall  know  by  this  honest  old  man ;  and,  though 
I  say  it,  though  old  man,  yet,  poor  man,  my  father. 

Bass. 
One  speak  for  both  :  — What  would  you  ? 

Laun. 
Serve  you,  sir. 

Gob. 

That  is  the  very  defect  of  the  matter,  sir. 

Bass.  [To  Launcelot. 

I  know  thee  well ;  thou  hast  obtained  thy  suit : 
Shylock,  thy  master,  spoke  with  me  this  day, 
And  hath  preferred  thee,  if  it  be  preferment, 
To  leave  a  rich  Jew's  service,  to  become 
The  follower  of  so  poor  a  gentleman. 

Laun. 

The  old  proverb  is  very  well  parted  between  my  master 
Shylock  and  you,  sir ;  you  have  the  grace  of  God,  sir,  and 
he  hath  enough. 


THE    MERCHANT   OF    VENICE.  35 

Bass. 

Thou  speak'st  it  well.     Go,  father,  with  thy  son  :  — 
Take  leave  of  thy  old  master,  and  inquire 
My  lodging  out :  —  give  him  a  livery.         [To  Leonardo. 
More  guarded  than  his  fellows' :  see  it  done. 

[Bassanio  and  Leonardo  retire  up. 

Laun.  \To  Gobbo. 

Father,  in: — I  cannot  get  a  service, — no!  —  I  have 
ne'er  a  tongue  in  my  head! — Well  [looking  on  his  palm]; 
if  any  man  in  Italy  have  a  fairer  table,  which  doth  offer  to 
swear  upon  a  book,  I  shall  have  good  fortune. —  Go  to, 
here  's  a  simple  line  of  life  !  here  's  a  small  trifle  of  wives  : 
Alas,  fifteen  wives  is  nothing;  eleven  widows  and  nine 
maids,  is  a  simple  coming-in  for  one  man :  and  then,  to 
'scape  drowning  thrice ;  and  to  be  in  peril  of  my  life  with 
the  edge  of  a  feather-bed ;  here  are  simple  'scapes !  Well, 
if  fortune  be  a  woman,  she 's  a  good  wench  for  this  gear. — 
Father,  come.  I  '11  take  my  leave  of  the  Jew  in  the  twink- 
ling of  an  eye. 

[Exeunt  Launcelot  and  Old  Gobbo  into  house  R. 
Bassanio  and  Leonardo  come  down. 

Bass. 

I  pray  thee,  good  Leonardo,  think  on  this; 
These  things  being  bought,  and  orderly  bestowed, 
Return  in  haste,  for  I  do  feast  to-night 
My  best-esteemed  acquaintance  :  hie  thee,  go. 

[Exit  Bassanio  L.  i.  E. 
Leon. 

My  best  endeavours  shall  be  done  herein. 

[Enter  Gratiano. 
Gra.  [  To  Leonardo. 

Where 's  your  master  ? 

Leon. 
Yonder,  sir,  he  walks.  [Exit  Leonardo  R. 

Gra. 
Signior  Bassanio [Re-enter  Bassanio  L, 


36  THE    MERCHANT   OF    VENICE. 

Bass. 
Gratiano ! 

Gra. 

I  have  a  suit  to  you. 

Bass. 
You  have  obtained  it. 

Gra. 

You  must  not  deny  me :  I  must  go  with  you  to  Belmont 

Bass. 

Why,  then  you  must. —  But  hear  thee,  Gratiano ; 

Thou  art  too  wild,  too  rude,  and  bold  of  voice ; 

Parts  that  become  thee  happily  enough, 

And  in  such  eyes  as  ours  appear  not  faults; 

But  where  thou  art  not  known,  why,  there  they  show 

Something  too  liberal :  —  Pray  thee  take  pain 

To  allay  with  some  cold  drops  of  modesty 

Thy  skipping  spirit ;  lest,  through  thy  wild  behaviour, 

I  be  misconstrued  in  the  place  I  go  to, 

And  lose  my  hopes. 

Gra. 

Signior  Bassanio,  hear  me : 

If  I  do  not  put  on  a  sober  habit, 

Talk  with  respect,  and  swear  but  now  and  then, 

Wear  prayer-books  in  my  pocket,  look  demurely ; 

Nay  more,  while  grace  is  saying  hood  mine  eyes 

Thus  with  my  hat,  and  sigh  and  say  amen ; 

Use  all  the  observance  of  civility, 

Like  one  well  studied  in  a  sad  ostent 

To  please  his  grandam, — never  trust  me  more. 

Bass. 
Well,  we  shall  see  your  bearing. 

Gra. 

Nay,  but  I  bar  to-night ;  you  shall  not  gauge  me 
By  what  we  do  to-night. 


THE    MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  37 

Bass. 

No,  that  were  pity ; 

I  would  entreat  you  rather  to  put  on 

Your  boldest  suit  of  mirth,  for  we  have  friends 

That  purpose  merriment.     But  fare  you  well, 

I  have  some  business. 

Gra. 

And  I  must  to  Lorenzo  and  the  rest ; 
But  we  will  visit  you  at  supper-time. 

[Exeunt  BasSiinio  L.  i.  E.,  and  Gratiano  L.  u.  E, 

[Enter  Jessica  and  Launcelot  from  house  R. 

Jes. 

I  am  sorry  thou  wilt  leave  my  father  so ; 
Our  house  is  hell,  and  thou,  a  merry  devil, 
Didst  rob  it  of  some  taste  of  tediousness. 
But  fare  thee  well :  there  is  a  ducat  for  thee : 
And,  Launcelot,  soon  at  supper  shalt  thou  see 
Lorenzo,  who  is  thy  new  master's  guest : 
Give  him  this  letter;  do  it  secretly, 
And  so  farewell ;  I  would  not  have  my  father 
See  me  in  talk  with  thee. 

Laun. 

Adieu  !  —  tears  exhibit  my  tongue.  Most  beautiful 
Pagan, —  most  sweet  Jew !  If  a  Christian  did  not  play  the 
knave  and  get  thee,  I  am  much  deceived.  But,  adieu! 
these  foolish  diops  do  somewhat  drown  my  manly  spirit: 
adieu ! 

Jes. 

Farewell,  good  Launcelot.  [Exit  Launcelot. 

Alack,  what  heinous  sin  is  it  in  me, 

To  be  ashamed  to  be  my  father's  child ! 

But  though  I  am  a  daughter  to  his  blood, 

I  am  not  to  his  manners :  O  Lorenzo, 

If  thou  keep  promise,  I  shall  end  this  strife ; 

Become  a  Christian,  and  thy  loving  wife. 

[Exit  into  house  R. 


THE    MERCHANT   OF   VENICE. 

&econ&. — VENICE.     A  STREET. 

[Enter  Gratiano,  Lorenzo,  Salarino,  and  Solanit 

L.  I.  E. 

Lor. 

Nay,  we  will  slink  away  in  supper-time; 
Disguise  us  at  my  lodging,  and  return 
All  in  an  hour. 

Gra. 

We  have  not  made  good  preparation. 

Salarino. 
We  have  not  spoke  us  yet  of  torch-bearers. 

Solanio, 

'T  is  vile,  unless  it  may  be  quaintly  ordered ; 
And  better,  in  my  mind,  not  undertook. 

Lor. 

'T  is  now  but  four  o'clock ;  we  have  two  hours 
To  furnish  us. — 

[Enter  Launcelot,  with  a  letter,  L.  i.  E. 
Friend  Launcelot,  what 's  the  news  ? 

Laun. 

An  it  shall  please  you  to  break  up  this,  it  shall  seem  to 
signify.  [Delivers  letter. 

Lor. 

I  know  the  hand :  in  faith,  't  is  a  fair  hand ; 
And  whiter  than  the  paper  it  writ  on 
Is  the  fair  hand  that  writ. 

Gra. 

Love-news,  in  faith. 

Laun. 
By  your  leave,  sir.  [Going. 

Lor. 
Whither  goest  thou  ? 


THE    MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  39 

Laun. 

Marry,  sir,  to  bid  my  old  master,  the  Jew,  to  sup  to- 
night with  my  new  master,  the  Christian. 

Lor,      [  Giving  a  piece  of  money. 

Hold  here,  take  this : — tell  gentle  Jessica, 

I  will  not  fail  her; — speak  it  privately: 

Go.  [Exit  Launcelot  B 

Gentlemen, 

Will  you  prepare  you  for  this  masque  to-night  ? 

I  am  provided  of  a  torch-bearer. 

Salarino. 
Ay,  marry,  I  '11  be  gone  about  it  straight. 

Solanio. 
And  so  will  I. 

Lor. 

Meet  me  and  Gratiano 
At  Gratiano's  lodging  some  hour  hence. 

Salarino. 
'T  is  good  we  do  so. 

[Exeunt  Salarino  and  Solanio  R.  i.  E, 

Gra. 
Was  not  that  letter  from  fair  Jessica  ? 

Lor. 

I  must  needs  tell  thee  all.     She  hath  directed 
How  I  shall  take  her  from  her  father's  house ; 
What  gold  and  jewels  she  is  furnished  with ; 
What  page's  suit  she  hath  in  readiness. 
If  e'er  the  Jew  her  father  come  to  heaven, 
It  will  be  for  his  gentle  daughter's  sake : 
And  never  dare  misfortune  cross  her  foot, 


40  THE   MERCHANT   OF   VENICE. 

Unless  she  do  it  under  this  excuse, — 
That  she  is  issue  to  &.  faithless  Jew. 
Come,  go  with  me ;  peruse  this  as  thou  goest : 
Fair  Jessica  shall  be  my  torch-bearer. 

\Exeunt  Gratiano  and  Lorenzo  L.  i.  E. 


C&trtl. — A   STREET   BEFORE   SHYLOCK'S   HOUSE. 
DUSK. 

\Enter  Shy  lock  and  Launcelot  from  house  R. 
Shy. 

Well,  thou  shalt  see,  thy  eyes  shall  be  thy  judge, 
The  difference  of  old  Shylock  and  Bassanio : 
What,  Jessica !  —  thou  shalt  not  gormandize, 
As  thou  hast  done  with  me;  —  What,  Jessica!  — 
And  sleep  and  snore,  and  rend  apparel  out ;  — 
Why,  Jessica,  I  say ! 

Laun. 
Why,  Jessica ! 

Shy. 

Who  bids  thee  call  ?     I  do  not  bid  thee  call. 
Laun. 

Your  worship  was  wont  to  tell  me  I  could  do  nothing 
without  bidding. 

[Enter  Jessica  from  house, 
Jes. 

Call  you  ?     What  is  your  will  ? 
Shy. 

I  am  bid  forth  to  supper,  Jessica; 

There  are  my  keys.  —  But  wherefore  should  I  go  ? 

I  am  not  bid  for  love ;  they  flatter  me : 


THE    MERCHANT   OF    VENICE.  41 

But  yet  I  '11  go  in  hate,  to  feed  upon 
The  prodigal  Christian.  —  Jessica,  my  girl, 
Look  to  my  house  :  —  I  am  right  loath  to  go ; 
There  is  some  ill  a  brewing  towards  my  rest, 
For  I  did  dream  of  money-bags  to-night. 

Laun. 

I  beseech  you,  sir,  go;  my  young  master  doth  expect  your 
reproach. 

Shy. 
So  do  I  his. 

Laun. 

And  they  have  conspired  together;  —  I  will  not  say, 
you  shall  see  a  masque ;  but  if  you  do,  then  it  was  not  for 
nothing  that  my  nose  fell  a  bleeding  on  Black-Monday 
last,  at  six  o'clock  i'  the  morning,  falling  out  that  year  on 
Ash-Wednesday  was  four  year  in  the  afternoon. 

Shy. 

What !  are  there  masques  ?     Hear  you  me,  Jessica: 
Lock  up  my  doors ;  and  when  you  hear  the  drum, 
And  the  vile  squeaking  of  the  wry-necked  fife, 
Clamber  not  you  up  to  the  casements  then, 
Nor  thrust  your  head  into  the  public  street, 
To  gaze  on  Christian  fools  with  varnished  faces : 
But  stop  my  house's  ears,  I  mean  my  casements; 
Let  not  the  sound  of  shallow  foppery  enter 
My  sober  house.  —  By  Jacob's  staff  I  swear, 
I  have  no  mind  of  feasting  forth  to-night : 
But  I  will  go. —  Go  you  before  me,  sirrah ;  [  To  Launcelot. 
Say,  I  will  come. 

f  Shy  lock  crosses  toivard  house. 

Laun. 

I  will  go  before,  sir.  — 

Mistress,  look  out  at  window  for  all  this ;       [  To  Jessica. 
There  will  come  a  Christian  by, 
Will  be  worth  a  Jewess'  eye.        [Exit  Launcelot  R.  i.  E. 


42  THE    MERCHANT   OF    VENICE. 

Shy. 
What  says  that  fool  of  Hagar's  offspring  ?  ha  ? 

Jes. 
His  words  were,  Farewell,  mistress;  nothing  else, 

Shy. 

The  patch  is  kind  enough ;  but  a  huge  feeder, 

Snail-slow  in  profit,  and  he  sleeps  by  day 

More  than  the  wild  cat :  drones  hive  not  with  me; 

Therefore  I  part  with  him,  and  part  with  him 

To  one  that  I  would  have  him  help  to  waste 

His  borrowed  purse.  —  Well,  Jessica,  go  in; 

Perhaps  I  will  return  immediately ; 

Do  as  I  bid  you  :  Shut  doors  after  you : 

Fast  bind,  fast  find ; 

A  proverb  never  stale  in  thrifty  mind. 

[Exit  Shy  lock  R.  i.  E, 
Jes.  [Alone. 

Farewell ;  and  if  my  fortune  be  not  crossed, 

I  have  a  father,  you  a  daughter,  lost.         [Exit  into  house. 

[Enter  Gratiano  and  Salarino,  masked,  L.  u.  E. 
Gra. 

This  is  the  pent-house,  under  which  Lorenzo 
Desired  us  to  make  stand. 

Salarino. 
His  hour  is  almost  past. 

Gra. 

And  it  is  marvel  he  out-dwells  his  hour, 
For  lovers  ever  run  before  the  clock. 

Salarino. 

O,  ten  times  faster  Venus'  pigeons  fly 

To  seal  love's  bonds  new  made,  than  they  are  wont 

To  keep  obliged  faith  unforfeited  I 


THE    MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  43 

Gra. 

That  ever  holds. 

[Enter  Lorenzo  in  Gondola,  L.  u.  E. 

Salarino. 
Here  comes  Lorenzo. 

Lor. 

Sweet  friends,  your  patience  for  my  long  abode: 
Not  I,  but  my  affairs,  have  made  you  wait. 
When  you  shall  please  to  play  the  thieves  for  wires, 
I  '11  watch  as  long  for  you  then.  —  Approach; 
Here  dwells  my  father  Jew. 

[A  song  is  sometimes  introduced  here.\ 

[Enter  Jessica  to  window. 
Jes. 

Who  are  you  ?     Tell  me,  for  more  certainty, 
Albeit  I  '11  swear  that  I  do  know  your  tongue. 

Lor. 
Lorenzo,  and  thy  love. 

Jes. 

Lorenzo,  certain ;  and  my  love,  indeed ; 

For  who  love  I  so  much  ?     And  now  who  knows 

But  you,  Lorenzo,  whether  I  am  yours  ? 

Lor. 

Heaven,  and  my  thoughts,  are  witness  that  thou  art  1 

Jes. 

Here,  catch  this  casket ;  it  is  worth  the  pains. 

[  Throwing  casket. 
Lor. 

Come  at  once; 

For  the  close  night  doth  play  the  runaway, 
And  we  are  stayed  for  at  Bassanio's  feast 


44  THE    MERCHANT   OF   VENICE. 

Jes. 

I  will  make  fast  the  doors,  and  gild  myself 

With  some  more  ducats,  and  be  with  you  straight. 

\Exit  from  window. 
Gra. 

Now,  by  my  hood,  a  Gentile,  and  no  Jew. 

Lor. 

Beshrew  me,  but  I  love  her  heartily : 
For  she  is  wise,  if  I  can  judge  of  her ; 
And  fair  she  is,  if  that  mine  eyes  be  true ; 
And  true  she  is,  as  she  hath  proved  herself; 
And  therefore,  like  herself,  wise,  fair,  and  true, 
Shall  she  be  placed  in  my  constant  soul. 

\Enter  Jessica. 

What,  art  thou  come  ?  —  On,  gentlemen ;  away ! 
Our  masquing  mates  by  this  time  for  us  stay. 

[They  embark  in  gondola.     Music  as  it  starts. 

CURTAIN. 


SCct 

VENICE.    A  STREET. 

[Enter  Salarino  and  Soeanio  L.  u.  E, 

Salarino. 

Why,  man,  I  saw  Bassanio  under  sail ; 
With  him  is  Gratiano  gone  along ; 
And  in  their  ship,  I  am  sure,  Lorenzo  is  not. 

Solanio. 

The  villain  Jew  with  outcries  raised  the  duke, 
Who  went  with  him  to  search  Bassanio's  ship. 

Salarino. 

He  came  too  late,  the  ship  was  under  sail : 
But  there  the  duke  was  given  to  understand 
That  in  a  gondola  were  seen  together 
Lorenzo  and  his  amorous  Jessica; 
Besides,  Antonio  certified  the  duke, 
They  were  not  with  Bassanio  in  his  ship. 

Solanio. 

I  never  heard  a  passion  so  confused, 

So  strange,  outrageous,  and  so  variable, 

As  the  dog  Jew  did  utter  in  the  streets  : 

"  My  daughter !  —  O  my  ducats !  —  O  my  daughter ! 

Fled  with  a  Christian  ?  —  O  my  Christian  ducats !  — 

Justice !  the  law !  my  ducats,  and  my  daughter ! 

Let  good  Antonio  look  he  keep  his  day, 

Or  he  shall  pay  for  this. 

Salarino. 

Marry,  well  remembered  :  I  reasoned  with  a  Frenchman 
yesterday,  who  told  me  that  Antonio  hath  a  ship  of  rich 
lading  wrecked  on  the  narrow  seas, — the  Goodwins,  I 
think  they  call  the  place ;  a  very  dangerous  flat,  and  fatal, 
where  the  carcasses  of  many  a  tall  ship  lie  buried,  as 
they  say,  if  my  gossip  Report  be  an  honest  woman  of  her 
word. 


46  THE    MERCHANT    OF   VENICE. 

Solanio. 

I  would  she  were  as  lying  a  gossip  in  that  as  ever 
knapped  ginger,  or  made  her  neighbours  believe  she  wept 
for  the  death  of  a  third  husband.  But  it  is  true  that  the 
good  Antonio,  the  honest  Antonio,  —  O  that  I  had  a  title 
good  enough  to  keep  his  name  company ! 

Salarino. 
Come,  the  full  stop. 

Solanio. 

Why,  the  end  is,  he  hath  lost  a  ship. 

Salarino. 
I  would  it  might  prove  the  end  of  his  losses ! 

Solanio. 

Let  me  say  amen  betimes,  lest  the  devil  cross  my  prayer; 
for  here  he  comes  in  the  likeness  of  a  Jew. 

[  They  cross  to  R.     Enter  Shy  lock  L.  u.  E. 
How  now,  Shylock  ?  what  news  among  the  merchants  ? 

Shy. 

You  knew,  none  so  well,  none  so  well  as  you,  of  my 
daughter's  flight. 

Salarino. 

That 's  certain.  I,  for  my  part,  knew  the  tailor  that 
made  the  wings  she  flew  withal. 

Solanio. 

And  Shylock,  for  his  own  part,  knew  the  bird  was 
fledged;  and  then  it  is  the  complexion  of  them  all  to 
leave  the  dam. 

Shy. 

She  is  damned  for  it. 

Salarino. 

That 's  certain,  if  the  devil  may  be  her  judge. 


THE    MERCHANT   OF    VENICE.  47 

Sky. 

My  own  flesh  and  blood  to  rebel ! 

Salaritw. 

But  tell  us,  do  you  hear  whether  Antonio  have  had  any 
loss  at  sea  or  no  ? 

Shy. 

There  I  have  another  bad  match :  a  bankrupt,  a  prodi- 
gal, who  dare  scarce  show  his  head  on  the  Rialto ;  a  beg- 
gar, that  was  used  to  come  so  smug  upon  the  mart.  —  Let 
him  look  to  his  bond !  he  was  wont  to  call  me  usurer  \  — 
let  him  look  to  his  bond :  he  was  wont  to  lend  money  for 
a  Christian  courtesy; — let  him  look  to  his  bond! 

Salarino. 

Why,  I  am  sure,  if  he  forfeit,  thou  wilt  not  take  his 
flesh  ?  What 's  that  good  for  ? 

Shy. 

To  bait  fish  withal !  if  it  will  feed  nothing  else,  it  will 
feed  my  revenge.  He  hath  disgraced  me,  and  hindered 
me  half  a  million ;  laughed  at  my  losses,  mocked  at  my 
gains,  scorned  my  nation,  thwarted  my  bargains,  cooled 
my  friends,  heated  mine  enemies ;  and  what 's  his  reason  ? 
I  am  a  Jew.  Hath  not  a  Jew  eyes  ?  hath  not  a  Jew 
hands,  organs,  dimensions,  senses,  affections,  passions  ? 
fed  with  the  same  food,  hurt  with  the  same  weapons,  sub- 
ject to  the  same  diseases,  healed  by  the  same  means, 
warmed  and  cooled  by  the  same  winter  and  summer,  as  a 
Christian  is  ?  If  you  prick  us,  do  we  not  bleed  ?  if  you 
tickle  us,  do  we  not  laugh  ?  if  you  poison  us,  do  we  not 
die  ?  and  if  you  wrong  us,  shall  we  not  revenge  ?  If  we 
are  like  you  in  the  rest,  we  will  resemble  you  in  that. 
If  a  Jew  wrong  a  Christian,  what  is  his  humility  ?  revenge. 
If  a  Christian  wrong  a  Jew,  what  should  his  sufferance  be 
by  Christian  example  ?  why,  revenge.  The  villainy  you 
teach  me  I  will  execute ;  and  it  shall  go  hard  but  I  will 
better  the  instruction. 


48  THE    MERCHANT    OF    VENICE. 

Solanio. 

Here  comes  another  of  the  tribe :  a  third  cannot  be 
matched,  unless  the  devil  himself  turn  Jew. 

[Exeunt  Solanio  and  Salarino  R.  i.  E.     Enter 
Tubal  L.  i.  E. 

Shy. 

How  now,  Tubal  ?  what  news  from  Genoa  ?  hast  thou 
found  my  daughter  ? 

Tub. 

I  often  came  where  I  did  hear  of  her,  but  cannot  find 
her. 

Shy. 

Why,  there,  there,  there,  there !  a  diamond  gone,  cost 
me  two  thousand  ducats  in  Frankfort !  The  curse  never 
fell  upon  our  nation  till  now ;  I  never  felt  it  till  now :  — 
two  thousand  ducats  in  that ;  and  other  precious,  precious 
jewels. —  I  would  my  daughter  were  dead  at  my  foot,  and 
the  jewels  in  her  ear !  would  she  were  hearsed  at  my  foot, 
and  the  ducats  in  her  coffin !  No  news  of  them  ? — Why, 
so :  —  and  I  know  not  what 's  spent  in  the  search.  Why, 
thou  loss  upon  loss!  the  thief  gone  with  so  much,  and 
so  much  to  find  the  thief;  and  no  satisfaction,  no  revenge: 
nor  no  ill  luck  stirring  but  what  lights  o'  my  shoulders ; 
no  sighs,  but  o'  my  breathing ;  no  tears,  but  o'  my  shed- 
ding. 

Tub. 

Yes,  other  men  have  ill  luck  too.     Antonio,  as  I  heard 

in  Genoa 

Shy. 

What,  what,  what  ?  ill  luck,  ill  luck  ? 

Tub. 
Hath  an  argosy  cast  away,  coming  from  Tripolis. 

Shy. 
I  thank  God !  I  thank  God !     Is  it  true  ?  is  it  true  ? 


THE    MERCHANT   OF  VENICE.  49 

Tub. 

I  spoke  with  some  of  the  sailors  that  escaped  the  wreck. 
Shy. 

I  thank  thee,  good  Tubal; —  Good  news,  good  news! 
ha !  ha !  Where  ?  in  Genoa  ? 

Tub. 

Your  daughter  spent  in  Genoa,  as,  I  heard,  one  night, 
fourscore  ducats. 

Shy. 

Thou  stick'st  a  dagger  in  me! — I  shall  never  see  my 
gold  again.  Fourscore  ducats  at  a  sitting!  fourscore 
ducats! 

Tub. 

There  came  divers  of  Antonio's  creditors  in  my  com- 
pany to  Venice,  that  swear  he  cannot  choose  but  break. 

Shy. 

I  am  very  glad  of  it.  I  '11  plague  him;  I  '11  torture  him. 
I  am  glad  of  it. 

Tub. 

One  of  them  showed  me  a  ring,  that  he  had  of  your 
daughter  for  a  monkey. 

Shy. 

Out  upon  her !  Thou  torturest  me,  Tubal :  it  was  my 
turquoise ;  I  had  it  of  Leah,  when  I  was  a  bachelor :  I 
would  not  have  given  it  for  a  wilderness  of  monkeys. 

Tub. 

But  Antonio  is  certainly  undone. 
Shy. 

Nay,  that 's  true,  that  's  very  true.  Go,  Tubal,  fee  me 
an  officer ;  bespeak  him  a  fortnight  before :  I  will  have 
the  heart  of  him,  if  he  forfeit ;  for  were  he  out  of  Venice 
I  can  make  what  merchandise  I  will.  Go,  Tubal,  and 
meet  me  at  our  synagogue ;  go,  good  Tubal ;  at  our  syna- 
gogue, Tubal.  [Exeunt, 

CURTAIN. 


5Hct  f  oujert), 

C  BELMONT.  A  ROOM  IN  PORTIA'S  HOUSE. 
THREE  CASKETS,  —  GOLD,  SILVER  AND 
Jiret.  <  LEAD, — ON  TABLE,  c.  BASSANIO,  POR- 
TIA, GRATIANO,  NERISSA,  AND  ATTEND- 

(_     ANTS  DISCOVERED. 

Bass. 

I  am  enjoined  by  oath  to  observe  three  things : 

First,  never  to  unfold  to  any  one 

Which  casket  't  was  I  chose ;  next,  if  I  fail 

Of  the  right  casket,  never  in  my  life 

To  woo  a  maid  in  way  of  marriage ;  lastly, 

If  I  do  fail  in  fortune  of  my  choice, 

Immediately  to  leave  you  and  be  gone. 

fbr. 

To  these  injunctions  every  one  doth  swear 
That  comes  to  hazard  for  my  worthless  self. 

Bass. 

And  so  have  I  addressed  me :  Fortune  no\r 
To  my  heart's  hope  ! 

Par. 

I  pray  you,  tarry ;  pause  a  day  or  two, 
Before  you  hazard ;  for,  in  choosing  wrong, 
I  lose  your  company ;  therefore,  forbear  a  while  : 
There  's  something  tells  me,  but  it  is  not  love, 
I  would  not  lose  you ;  and  you  know  yourself, 
Hate  counsels  not  in  such  a  quality. 


THE   MERCHANT   OF  VENICE.  51 

I  could  teach  you 

How  to  choose  right,  but  then  I  am  forsworn ; 

So  will  I  never  be  :  so  may  you  miss  me  ; 

But  if  you  do,  you'll  make  me  wish  a  sin, 

That  I  had  been  forsworn. 

I  speak  too  long ;  but  't  is  to  peize  the  time, 

To  eke  it,  and  to  draw  it  out  in  length, 

To  stay  you  from  election. 

Bass. 

Let  me  choose  ; 

For,  as  I  am,  I  live  upon  the  rack. 

For. 

Upon  the  rack,  Bassanio  ?  then  confess 
What  treason  there  is  mingled  with  your  love. 

Bass. 

None  but  that  ugly  treason  of  mistrust, 
Which  makes  me  fear  the  enjoying  of  my  love. 

For. 

Ay,  but  I  fear  you  speak  upon  the  rack, 
Where  men  enforced  do  speak  anything. 

Bass. 
Promise  me  life,  and  I'll  confess  the  truth. 

For. 
Well  then,  confess,  and  live. 

Bass. 

Confess  and  love 

Had  been  the  very  sum  of  my  confession. 
O  happy  torment,  when  my  torturer 


52  THE   MERCHANT   OF   VENICE. 

Doth  teach  me  answers  for  deliverance  : 
Come,  let  me  to  my  fortune  and  the  caskets. 

For. 

Away  then. 

I  am  locked  in  one  of  them ; 

If  you  do  love  me  you  will  find  me  out. 

Nerissa,  and  the  rest,  stand  all  aloof.  [They  retire. 

Let  music  sound,  while  he  doth  make  his  choice ; 

Then,  if  he  lose,  he  makes  a  swan-like  end, 

Fading  in  music  :  that  the  comparison 

May  stand  more  proper,  my  eye  shall  be  the  stream, 

And  watery  death-bed  for  him.  \JMusic. 

Now  he  goes  with  no  less  presence,  but  with  much  more 

love, 

Than  young  Alcides,  when  he  did  redeem 
The  virgin  tribute  paid  by  howling  Troy 
To  the  sea  monster  !     I  stand  for  sacrifice ; 
The  rest  aloof  are  the  Dardanian  wives, 
With  bleared  visages,  come  forth  to  view 
The  issue  of  the  exploit.     Go,  Hercules  ! 
Live  thou,  I  live  :  with  much  more  dismay 
I  view  the  fight,  than  thou  that  mak'st  the  fray. 

Bass. 

Some  good  direct  my  judgment !  —  Let  me  see.  — 

"  Who  chooseth  me  shall  gain  )  r  v     ,  ,  . 

TIT.    ,  Reads  on  casket. 

What  many  men  desire.  j 

That  may  be  meant 

Of  the  fool  multitude  that  choose  by  show. 
The  world  is  still  deceived  with  ornament. 
In  law,  what  plea  so  tainted  and  corrupt, 
But,  being  seasoned  with  a  gracious  voice, 
Obscures  the  show  of  evil  ?     In  religion, 
What  damned  error,  but  some  sober  brow 
Will  bless  it,  and  approve  it  with  a  text. 
Hiding  the  grossness  with  fair  ornament  ? 


THE    MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  53 

Thus  ornament  is  but  the  guiled  shore 

To  a  most  dangerous  sea ;  the  beauteous  scarf 

Veiling  an  Indian  beauty. 

Therefore,  thou  gaudy  gold, 

Hard  food  for  Midas,  I  will  none  of  thee. 

"  Who  chooseth  me  shall  get )      {Reads  on  second 
As  much  as  he  deserves."        j  casket. 

And  well  said,  too  :  for  who  shall  go  about 

To  cozen  fortune,  and  be  honourable 

Without  the  stamp  of  merit? 

O,  that  estates,  degrees,  and  offices 

Were  not  derived  corruptly  !  and  that  clear  honour 

Were  purchased  by  the  merit  of  the  wearer  ! 

How  many  then  should  cover  that  stand  bare  ! 

How  many  be  commanded  that  command  ! 

And  how  much  honour 

Picked  from  the  chaff  and  ruin  of  the  times, 

To  be  new  varnished  ! 

"  Much  as  he  deserves." 

I'll  not  assume  desert. 

"  Who  chooseth  me  must  give  \       [Reads  on  third. 
And  hazard  all  he  hath."  j  casket. 

I'll  none  of  thee,  thou  pale  and  common  drudge 
Tween  man  and  man.     But  thou,  thou  meagre  lead, 
Which  rather  threat'nest  than  dost  promise  aught, 
Thy  paleness  moves  me  more  than  eloquence, 
And  here  choose  I.     Joy  be  the  consequence  ! 


For. 

How  all  the  other  passions  fleet  to  air  ! 

0  love,  be  moderate,  allay  thy  ecstasy ; 

1  feel  too  much  thy  blessing ;  make  it  less, 
For  fear  I  surfeit ! 


54 


THE   MERCHANT   OF   VENICE. 

Bass. 


[  Opening  the  leaden  casket. 


What  find  I  here? 

Fair  Portia's  counterfeit? 

What  demi-god  hath  come  so  near  creation  ? 

Move  these  eyes? 

Or  whether,  riding  on  the  balls  of  mine, 

Seemed  they  in  motion  ?     Here  are  severed  lips, 

Parted  with  sugar  breath ;  so  sweet  a  bar 

Should  sunder  such  sweet  friends.     Here  in  her  hair 

The  painter  plays  the  spider,  and  hath  woven 

A  golden  mesh  t'  entrap  the  hearts  of  men 

Faster  than  gnats,  in  cobwebs ;  but  her  eyes  ! 

How  could  he  see  them  ?  having  made  one, 

Methinks  it  should  have  power  to  steal  both  his, 

And  leave  itself  unfurnished. 

Yet  look,  how  far  the  substance 

Of  my  praise  doth  wrong  his  shadow 

In  underprising  it,  so  far  this  shadow 

Doth  limp  behind  the  substance. 

Here's  the  scroll, 

The  continent  and  summary  of  my  fortune. 

"  You  that  choose  not  by  the  view, 

Chance  as  fair,  and  choose  as  true  : 

Since  this  fortune  falls  to  you, 

Be  content,  and  seek  no  new.  Reads  on 

If  you  be  well  pleased  with  this,  scroll. 

And  hold  your  fortune  for  your  bliss, 

Turn  you  where  your  lady  is, 

And  claim  her  with  a  loving  kiss." 

A  gentle  scroll.  —  Fair  lady,  by  your  leave  :       \To  Portia. 
I  come  by  note,  to  give  and  to  receive ; 
Yet  doubtful  whether  what  I  see  be  true, 
Until  confirmed,  signed,  ratified  by  you. 

\He  kneels  and  kisses  her  hand.  —  Music  ceases. 


THE   MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  55 

For. 

You  see  me,  Lord  Bassanio,  where  I  stand, 

Such  as  I  am  :  though,  for  myself  alone, 

I  would  not  be  ambitious  in  my  wish, 

To  wish  myself  much  better ;  yet,  for  you, 

I  would  be  trebled  twenty  times  myself; 

A  thousand  times  more  fair,  ten  thousand  times  more  rich  : 

That,  only  to  stand  high  in  your  account, 

I  might  in  virtues,  beauties,  livings,  friends, 

Exceed  account.     But  now  I  was  the  lord 

Of  this  fair  mansion,  master  of  my  servants, 

Queen  o'er  myself;  and  even  now,  but  now, 

This  house,  these  servants,  and  this  same  myself 

Are  yours,  my  lord.     I  give  them  with  this  ring ; 

Which,  when  you  part  from,  lose,  or  give  away, 

Let  it  presage  the  ruin  of  your  love, 

And  be  my  vantage  to  exclaim  on  you. 

Bass. 

Madam,  you  have  bereft  me  of  all  words ; 
Only  my  blood  speaks  to  you  in  my  veins  : 
But  when  this  ring 

Parts  from  this  finger,  then  parts  life  from  hence ; 
O,  then  be  bold  to  say,  Bassanio  's  dead. 


Ner. 

My  lord  and  lady,  it  is  now  our  time, 

That  have  stood  by,  and  seen  our  wishes  prosper, 

To  cry,  good  joy  !     Good  joy,  my  lord  and  lady  ! 

Gra. 

My  lord  Bassanio,  and  my  gentle  lady, 
I  wish  you  all  the  joy  that  you  can  wish, 
For  I  am  sure  you  can  wish  none  from  me  : 


56  THE   MERCHANT   OF   VENICE. 

And  when  your  honours  mean  to  solemnize 
The  bargain  of  your  faith,  I  do  beseech  you, 
Even  at  that  time  I  may  be  married  too. 

Bass. 
With  all  my  heart,  so  thou  canst  get  a  wife. 

Gra. 

I  thank  your  lordship ;  you  have  got  me  one. 

My  eyes,  my  lord,  can  look  as  swift  as  yours : 

You  saw  the  mistress,  I  beheld  the  maid ; 

You  loved,  I  loved  ;  for  intermission 

No  more  pertains  to  me,  my  lord,  than  you. 

Your  fortune  stood  upon  the  caskets  there ; 

And  so  did  mine  too,  as  the  matter  falls  : 

For  wooing  here,  until  I  sweat  again, 

And  swearing,  till  my  very  roof  was  dry 

With  oaths  of  love,  at  last,  —  if  promise  last,  — 

I  got  a  promise  of  this  fair  one  here, 

To  have  her  love,  provided  that  your  fortune 

Achieved  her  mistress. 

For. 
Is  this  true,  Nerissa? 

Ner. 
Madam,  it  is,  so  you  stand  pleased  withal. 

Bass. 
And  do  you,  Gratiano,  mean  good  faith  ? 

Gra. 
Yes,  faith,  my  lord. 

Bass. 
Our  feast  shall  be  much  honoured  in  your  marriage. 


THE    MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  57 

Gra. 

But  who  comes  here  ?     Lorenzo,  and  his  infidel  ? 
What !  and  my  old  Venetian  friend,  Salerio  ? 

[Enter  Lorenzo  and  Jessica;  after  them  Salerio, 

L.  I.  E. 

Bass. 

Lorenzo,  and  Salerio,  welcome  hither; 

If  that  the  youth  of  my  new  interest  here 

Have  power  to  bid  you  welcome :  —  By  your  leave, 

I  bid  my  very  friends  and  countrymen, 

Sweet  Portia,  welcome. 

For. 

So  do  I,  my  lord ; 
They  are  entirely  welcome. 

Lor. 

I  thank  your  honour : —  [To  Portia. 

For  my  part,  my  lord, 

My  purpose  was  not  to  have  seen  you  here ; 

But  meeting  with  Salerio  by  the  way, 

He  did  entreat  me,  past  all  saying  nay, 

To  come  with  him  along. 

Salerio. 

I  did,  my  lord, 

And  I  have  reason  for  it.     Signior  Antonio 
Commends  him  to  you.  [  Gives  Bassanio  a  letter. 

Bass. 

Ere  I  ope  his  letter, 
I  pray  you  tell  me  how  my  good  friend  doth. 

Salerio. 

Not  sick,  my  lord,  unless  it  be  in  mind ; 
Nor  well,  unless  in  mind :  his  letter  there 
Will  show  you  his  estate.  \Bassanio  opens  letter. 

Gra. 

Nerissa,  cheer  yon  stranger;  bid  her  welcome. 

\Nerissa  goes  to  Jessica. 


58  THE    MERCHANT   OF   VENICE. 

Your  hand,  Salerio.     What 's  the  news  from  Venice  ? 
How  doth  that  royal  merchant,  good  Antonio  ? 
I  know  he  will  be  glad  of  our  success ; 
We  are  the  Jasons ;  we  have  won  the  fleece. 

Salerio. 

I  would  you  had  won  the  fleece  that  he  hath  lost ! 

Por. 

There  are  some  shrewd  contents  in  yon  same  paper 
That  steal  the  colour  from  Bassanio's  cheek; 
Some  dear  friend  dead ;  else  nothing  in  the  world 
Could  turn  so  much  the  constitution 
Of  any  constant  man.     What,  worse  and  worse  ? — 
With  leave,  Bassanio ;  I  am  half  yourself, 
And  I  must  freely  have  the  half  of  any  thing 
That  this  same  paper  brings  you. 

Bass. 

0  sweet  Portia, 

Here  are  a  few  of  the  unpleasant'st  words 
That  ever  blotted  paper !     Gentle  lady, 
When  I  did  first  impart  my  love  to  you, 

1  freely  told  you,  all  the  wealth  I  had 
Ran  in  my  veins, — I  was  a  gentleman; 

And  then  I  told  you  true :  and  yet,  dear  lady, 

Raring  myself  at  nothing,  you  shall  see 

How  much  I  was  a  braggart.     When  I  told  you 

My  state  was  nothing,  I  should  then  have  told  you 

That  I  was  worse  than  nothing;  for,  indeed, 

I  have  engaged  myself  to  a  dear  friend, 

Engaged  my  friend  to  his  mere  enemy, 

To  feed  my  means.     Here  is  a  letter,  lady; 

The  paper  as  the  body  of  my  friend, 

And  every  word  in  it  a  gaping  wound, 

Issuing  life-blood.     But  is  it  true,  Salerio  ? 

Have  all  his  ventures  failed  ?     What,  not  one  hit  ? 

From  Tripolis,  from  Mexico,  and  England, 

And  not  one  vessel  'scape  the  dreadful  touch 

Of  merchant-marring  rocks  ? 


THE   MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  59 

Salerio. 

Not  one,  my  lord. 

Besides,  it  should  appear  that  if  he  had 
The  present  money  to  discharge  the  Jew, 
He  would  not  take  it.     Never  did  I  know 
A  creature  that  did  bear  the  shape  of  man, 
So  keen  and  greedy  to  confound  a  man. 
He  plies  the  duke  at  morning,  and  at  night, 
And  doth  impeach  the  freedom  of  the  state, 
If  they  deny  him  justice :  twenty  merchants, 
The  duke  himself,  and  the  magnificoes 
Of  greatest  port,  have  all  persuaded  with  him ; 
But  none  can  drive  him  from  the  envious  plea 
Of  forfeiture,  of  justice,  and  his  bond. 

fbr. 

Is  it  your  dear  friend  that  is  thus  in  trouble  ? 
Bass. 

The  dearest  friend  to  me,  the  kindest  man, 
The  best  conditioned  and  unwearied  spirit 
In  doing  courtesies ;  and  one  in  whom 
The  ancient  Roman  honour  more  appears, 
Than  any  that  draws  breath  in  Italy. 

For. 
What  sum  owes  he  the  Jew  ? 

Bass. 
For  me,  three  thousand  ducats. 

For. 

What,  no  more  ? 

Pay  him  six  thousand,  and  deface  the  bond ; 

Double  six  thousand,  and  then  treble  that, 

Before  a  friend  of  this  description 

Shall  lose  a  hair  through  my  Bassanio's  fault. 

Then,  love,  away  to  Venice  to  your  friend ; 


THE   MERCHANT  OF   VENICE. 

For  never  shall  you  lie  by  Portia's  side 
With  an  unquiet  soul.     You  shall  have  gold 
To  pay  the  petty  debt  twenty  times  over; 
When  it  is  paid,  bring  your  true  friend  along : 
My  maid  Nerissa,  and  myself,  meantime 
Will  live  as  maids  and  widows.     Come,  away; 
For  you  shall  hence  upon  your  wedding-day 
Bid  your  friends  welcome,  show  a  merry  cheer ; 
Since  you  are  dear  bought,  I  will  love  you  dear. 
But  let  me  hear  the  letter  of  your  friend. 


Bass.  \Reads. 

"  Sweet  Bassanio,  my  ships  have  all  miscarried,  my 
creditors  grow  cruel,  my  estate  is  very  low,  my  bond  to 
the  Jew  is  forfeit ;  and  since,  in  paying  it,  it  is  impossible 
I  should  live,  all  debts  are  cleared  between  you  and  I, 
if  I  might  but  see  you  at  my  death :  notwithstanding,  use 
your  pleasure :  if  your  love  do  not  persuade  you  to  come, 
let  not  my  letter." 

For. 
O  love,  despatch  all  business,  and  be  gone. 


Bass. 

Since  I  have  your  good  leave  to  go  away, 

I  will  make  haste ;  but,  till  I  come  again, 

No  bed  shall  ere  be  guilty  of  my  stay, 

Nor  rest  be  interposer  'twixt  us  twain.  [Exeunt  R. 


Lor. 

Madam,  although  I  speak  it  in  your  presence, 
You  have  a  noble  and  a  true  conceit 
Of  godlike  amity ;  which  appears  most  strongly 


THE    MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  6 1 

In  bearing  thus  the  absence  of  your  lord. 
But,  if  you  knew  to  whom  you  show  this  honour, 
How  true  a  gentleman  you  send  relief, 
How  dear  a  lover  of  my  lord,  your  husband, 
I  know  you  would  be  prouder  of  the  work, 
Than  customary  bounty  can  enforce  you. 

For. 

I  never  did  repent  for  doing  good, 

Nor  shall  not  now : 

This  comes  too  near  the  praising  of  myself; 

Therefore,  no  more  of  it :  hear  other  things. 

Lorenzo,  I  commit  into  your  hands 

The  husbandry  and  manage  of  my  house, 

Until  my  lord's  return :  for  mine  own  part, 

I  have  toward  heaven  breathed  a  secret  vow 

To  live  in  prayer  and  contemplation, 

Only  attended  by  Nerissa  here, 

Until  her  husband  and  my  lord's  return : 

There  is  a  monastery  two  miles  off, 

And  there  we  will  abide.     I  do  desire  you 

Not  to  deny  this  imposition, 

The  which  my  love,  and  some  necessity, 

Now  lays  upon  you. 

Lor. 

Madam,  with  all  my  heart, 
I  shall  obey  you  in  all  fair  commands. 

For. 

My  people  will  acknowledge  you  and  Jessica 
In  place  of  Lord  Bassanio  and  myself: 
And  so,  farewell  till  we  shall  meet  again. 

Lor. 

Fair  thoughts  and  happy  hours  attend  on  you  ! 


62  THE   MERCHANT   OF   VENICE. 

Jes. 
I  wish  your  ladyship  all  heart's  content. 

For. 

I  thank  you  for  your  wish,  and  am  well  pleased 
To  wish  it  back  on  you :  fare  you  well,  Jessica. 

\Exeunt  Jessica  and  Lorenzo  L.  I.E.     Enter  Bal- 
thazar R.  I.E. 
Now,  Balthazar, 

As  I  have  ever  found  thee  honest,  true, 
So  let  me  find  thee  still.     Take  this  same  letter, 
And  use  thou  all  the  endeavour  of  a  man 
In  speed  to  Padua ;  see  thou  render  this 
Into  my  cousin's  hand,  Doctor  Bellario; 
And,  look,  what  notes  and  garments  he  doth  give  thee, 
Bring  them,  I  pray  thee,  with  imagined  speed 
Unto  the  tranect,  to  the  common  ferry 
Which  trades  to  Venice; — waste  no  time  in  words, 
But  get  thee  gone ;  I  shall  be  there  before  thee. 

Balth. 
Madam,  I  go  with  all  convenient  speed.         [Exit  R.  i.  E. 

For. 

Come  on,  Nerissa ;  I  have  work  in  hand 

That  you  yet  know  not  of:  we  '11  see  our  husbands 

Before  they  think  of  us. 

Ner. 
Shall  they  see  us  ? 

For. 

They  shall,  Nerissa ;  but  in  such  a  habit, 
That  they  shall  think  we  are  accomplished 
With  that  we  lack.     I'll  hold  thee  any  wager, 
When  we  are  both  accoutred  like  young  men, 
I'll  prove  the  prettier  fellow  of  the  two, 
And  wear  my  dagger  with  the  braver  grace ; 


THE   MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  63 

And  speak  between  the  change  of  man  and  boy, 

With  a  reed  voice  ;  and  speak  of  frays, 

Like  a  fine  bragging  youth ;  and  tell  quaint  lies, 

How  honourable  ladies  sought  my  love, 

Which  I  denying,  they  fell  sick  and  died : 

And  twenty  of  these  puny  lies  I'll  tell, 

That  men  shall  swear  I've  discontinued  school 

Above  a  twelvemonth.     I  have  within  my  mind 

A  thousand  raw  tricks  of  these  bragging  jacks 

Which  I  will  practise  : 

But  come,  I'll  tell  thee  all  my  whole  device 

When  I  am  in  my  coach,  which  stays  for  us 

At  the  park  gate  ;  and  therefore  haste  away. 

For  we  must  measure  twenty  miles  to-day. 

CURTAIN. 


f iftf). 

{VENICE.  A  COURT  OF  JUSTICE.  THE 
DUKE,  THE  MAGNIFICOES,  ANTONIO, 
BASSANIO,  GRATIANO,  SALARINO,  So- 
LANIO,  SALERIO,  AND  OTHERS  DISCOV- 
ERED. 

Duke. 
What,  is  Antonio  here  ? 

Ant. 

Ready,  so  please  your  grace. 

Duke. 

I  am  sorry  for  thee ;  thou  art  come  to  answer 
A  stony  adversary,  an  inhuman  wretch 
Uncapable  of  pity,  void  and  empty 
From  any  dram  of  mercy. 

Ant. 

I  have  heard 

Your  grace  hath  ta'en  great  pains  to  qualify 
His  rigorous  course ;  but  since  he  stands  obdurate, 
And  that  no  lawful  means  can  carry  me 
Out  of  his  envy's  reach,  I  do  oppose 
My  patience  to  his  fury  ;  and  am  armed 
To  suffer,  with  a  quietness  of  spirit, 
The  very  tyranny  and  rage  of  his. 

Duke. 
Go  one,  and  call  the  Jew  into  the  court 


THE    MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  65 

Solanio. 

He  's  ready  at  the  door :  he  comes,  my  lord. 

[Enter  Shy  lock  R.  i.  E, 
Duke. 

Make  room,  and  let  him  stand  before  our  face. 

Shylock,  the  world  thinks,  and  I  think  so  too, 

That  thou  but  lead'st  this  fashion  of  thy  malice 

To  the  last  hour  of  act ;  and  then,  't  is  thought, 

Thou  'It  show  thy  mercy  and  remorse,  more  strange 

Than  is  chy  strange  apparent  cruelty : 

And  where  thou  now  exact'st  the  penalty 

(Which  is  a  pound  of  this  poor  merchant's  flesh), 

Thou  wilt  not  only  lose  the  forfeiture, 

But,  touched  with  human  gentleness  and  love, 

Forgive  a  moiety  of  the  principal ; 

Glancing  an  eye  of  pity  on  his  losses, 

That  have  of  late  so  huddled  on  his  back, 

Enough  to  press  a  royal  merchant  down, 

And  pluck  commiseration  of  his  state 

From  brassy  bosoms,  and  rough  hearts  of  flint, 

From  stubborn  Turks  and  Tartars,  never  trained. 

To  offices  of  tender  courtesy. 

We  all  expect  a  gentle  answer,  Jew. 

Shy. 

I  have  possessed  your  grace  of  what  I  purpose; 
And  by  our  holy  Sabbath  have  I  sworn 
To  have  the  due  and  forfeit  of  my  bond : 
If  you  deny  it,  let  the  danger  light 
Upon  your  charter  and  your  city's  freedom. 
You  '11  ask  me  why  I  rather  choose  to  have 
A  weight  of  carrion  flesh,  than  to  receive 
Three  thousand  ducats.     I  '11  not  answer  that : 
But,  say,  it  is  my  humour :  Is  it  answered  ? 
What  if  my  house  be  troubled  with  a  rat, 
And  I  be  pleased  to  give  ten  thousand  ducats 
To  have  it  baned  ?     What,  are  you  answered  yet  ? 
Some  men  there  are  love  not  a  gaping  pig ; 
Some,  that  are  mad  if  they  behold  a  cat : 


66  THE    MERCHANT    OF   VENICE. 

Now,  for  your  answer : 

As  there  is  no  firm  reason  to  be  rendered, 

Why  he  cannot  abide  a  gaping  pig; 

Why  he,  a  harmless  necessary  cat; 

So  can  I  give  no  reason,  nor  I  will  not, 

More  than  a  lodged  hate,  and  a  certain  loathing, 

I  bear  Antonio,  that  I  follow  thus 

A  losing  suit  against  him.     Are  you  answered  ? 

Bass. 

This  is  no  answer,  thou  unfeeling  man, 
To  excuse  the  current  of  thy  cruelty. 

Shy. 
I  am  not  bound  to  please  thee  with  my  answer. 

Bass. 
Do  all  men  kill  the  things  they  do  not  love  ? 

Shy. 
Hates  any  man  the  thing  he  would  not  kill  ? 

Bass. 
Every  offence  is  not  a  hate  at  first. 

Shy. 
What,  wouldst  thou  have  a  serpent  sting  thee  twice  ? 

Ant. 

I  pray  you,  think  you  question  with  the  Jew : 
You  may  as  well  go  stand  upon  the  beach, 
And  bid  the  main  flood  bate  his  usual  height ; 
You  may  as  well  use  question  with  the  wolf, 
Why  he  hath  made  the  ewe  bleat  for  the  lamb ; 
You  may  as  well  forbid  the  mountain  pines 
To  wag  their  high  tops,  and  to  make  no  noise, 
When  they  are  fretted  with  the  gusts  of  heaven ; 


THE    MERCHA>T   OF   VE2OCE.  67 

You  may  as  wdl  do  any  thing  most  hard, 
As  seek  to  soften  that  (than  which  what  7s  border  ?) 
His  Jewish  heart  :  —  Therefore,  I  do  beseech  you, 
Make  no  more  offers,  use  no  further  means, 
Bat;  with  all  brief  and  plain  conveniency, 
-Let  me  have  judgment,  and  the  Jew  his 


Bass. 

For  thy  three  thousand  ducats  here  is  six. 

Sky. 

If  every  ducat  in  sis  thousand  ducats 

Were  in  sis  parts,  and  every  part  a  ducat, 

I  would  not  draw  them,  —  I  would  have  my  bond. 

Dmke. 

How  shah  thou  hope  for  mercy,  rend'ring  none  ? 

Sky. 

What  judgment  shall  I  dread,  doing  no  wrong  ? 
You  have  among  you  many  a  purchased  slave, 
Which,  like  your  asses,  and  your  dogs,  and 
You  use  in  abject  and  in  slavish  parts, 
Because  you  bought  them  :  —  Shall  I  say  to  you, 
Let  them  be  free,  marry  them  to  your  heirs  ? 
Why  sweat  they  under  burthens  ?  let  their  beds 
Be  made  as  soft  as  yours,  and  let  their  palates 
Be  seasoned  with  such  viands  ?    You  wfll  answer, 
The  slaves  are  ours  :  —  So  do  I  answer  you  : 
The  pound  of  flesh,  which  I  demand  of  him, 
Is  dearly  bought  ;  ?t  is  mine,  and  I  wiH  have  it  : 
If  you  deny  me,  fie  upon  your  law  ! 
There  is  no  force  in  the  decrees  of  Venice  : 
I  stand  for  judgment  :  answer,  shall  I  have  it  ? 

Duke. 

Upon  my  power,  I  may  dismiss  this  court, 
Unless  Beflario,  a  learned  doctor, 

ra  I  have  sent  for  to  determine  this, 
Come  here  to-day. 


68  THE    MERCHANT   OF   VENICE. 

Salarino. 

My  lord,  here  stays  without 

A  messenger  with  letters  from  the  doctor, 

New  come  from  Padua. 

Duke. 

Bring  us  the  letters ;  call  the  messenger. 

[Exeunt  Solanio  and  Salarino. 

Bass. 

Good  cheer,  Antonio !    What,  man !  courage  yet ! 
The  Jew  shall  have  my  flesh,  blood,  bones,  and  all, 
Ere  thou  shalt  lose  for  me  one  drop  of  blood. 

Ant. 

I  am  a  tainted  wether  of  the  flock, 
Meetest  for  death ;  the  weakest  kind  of  fruit 
Drops  earliest  to  the  ground,  and  so  let  me : 
You  cannot  better  be  employed,  Bassanio, 
Than  to  live  still,  and  write  mine  epitaph. 

[Re-enter    Solanio  and  Salarino  with   Nerissa, 

•who  is  dressed  like  a  lawyer's  clerk.     Shylock 

kneels  to  whet  his  knife. 

Duke.  \ToNerissa. 

Came  you  from  Padua,  from  Bellario  ? 

Ner. 

From  both,  my  lord :  Bellario  greets  your  grace. 

[Presents  a  letter,  and  then  sits  at  table  c. 

Bass.  [To  Shylock, 

Why  dost  thou  whet  thy  knife  so  earnestly  ? 

Shy. 
To  cut  the  forfeiture  from  that  bankrupt  there. 

Gra. 

Not  on  thy  sole,  but  on  thy  soul,  harsh  Jew, 
Thou  mak'st  thy  knife  keen. 
Can  no  prayers  pierce  thee  ? 


THE    MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  69 

Shy. 

No,  none  that  thou  hast  wit  enough  to  make. 
Gra. 

O,  be  thou  damned,  inexorable  dog ! 

And  for  thy  life  let  justice  be  accused. 

Thou  almost  mak'st  me  waver  in  my  faith, 

To  hold  opinion  with  Pythagoras, 

That  souls  of  animals  infuse  themselves 

Into  the  trunks  of  men  :  thy  currish  spirit 

Governed  a  wolf,  who,  hanged  for  human  slaughter 

Even  from  the  gallows  did  his  fell  soul  fleet, 

And,  whilst  thou  lay'st  in  thy  unhallowed  dam, 

Infused  itself  in  thee ;  for  thy  desires 

Are  wolfish,  bloody,  starved,  and  ravenous. 

Shy. 

Till  thou  canst  rail  the  seal  from  off  my  bond, 
Thou  but  offend'st  thy  lungs  to  speak  so  loud : 
Repair  thy  wit,  good  youth,  or  it  will  fall 
To  cureless  ruin. —  I  stand  here  for  law. 

Duke. 

This  letter  from  Bellario  doth  commend 
A  young  and  learned  doctor  to  our  court : 
Where  is  he  ? 

Ner.  [Rises. 

He  attendeth  here  hard  by, 

To  know  your  answer,  whether  you  '11  admit  him. 

Duke. 

With  all  my  heart :  —  Go,  some  of  you, 

And  give  him  courteous  conduct  to  this  place. — 

[Exeunt  Salarino,  Solanio,  and  Gratiano  R.  i.  E. 
Meantime,  the  court  shall  hear  Bellario's  letter.   [Reads. 

"Your  grace  shall  understand  that,  at  the  receipt  of 
your  letter,  I  am  very  sick :  but  in  the  instant  that  your 


70  THE    MERCHANT   OF    VENICE. 

messenger  came,  in  loving  visitation  was  with  me  a  young 
doctor  of  Rome ;  his  name  is  Balthazar :  I  acquainted 
him  with  the  cause  in  controversy  between  the  Jew  and 
Antonio  the  merchant:  we  turned  o'er  many  books  to- 
gether :  he  is  furnished  with  my  opinion ;  which,  bettered 
with  his  own  learning  ( the  greatness  whereof  I  cannot 
enough  commend),  comes  with  him,  at  my  importunity, 
to  fill  up  your  grace's  request  in  my  stead.  I  beseech  you, 
let  his  lack  of  years  be  no  impediment  to  let  him  lack  a 
reverend  estimation ;  for  I  never  knew  so  young  a  body 
with  so  old  a  head.  I  leave  him  to  your  gracious  accept- 
ance, whose  trial  shall  better  publish  his  commendation." 

You  hear  the  learned  Bellario  what  he  writes  : 

\Re-enter  Gratiano. 
And  here,  I  take  it,  is  the  doctor  come. — 

[Re-enter  Salarino  and  Solanio,  with  Portia,  who 

is  dressed  like  a  Doctor  of  Laws. 
Give  me  your  hand :  Came  you  from  old  Bellario  ? 

Par. 
I  did,  my  lord. 

Duke. 

You  are  welcome :  take  your  place.    [Portia  goes  to  desk  R. 
Are  you  acquainted  with  the  difference 
That  holds  this  present  question  in  the  court  ? 

For. 

I  am  informed  throughly  of  the  cause. 

Which  is  the  Merchant  here,  and  which  the  Jew  ? 

Duke. 

Antonio  and  old  Shylock,  both  stand  forth. 

[Antonio  and  Shylock  advance. 

Por. 
Is  your  name  Shylock  ? 

Shy. 
Shylock  is  my  name. 


THE    MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  *t 

For. 

Of  a  strange  nature  is  the  suit  you  follow ; 

Yet  in  such  rule  that  the  Venetian  law 

Cannot  impugn  you,  as  you  do  proceed. — 

You  stand  within  his  danger,  do  you  not  ?       [To  Antonw. 

Ant. 
Ay,  so  he  says. 

Par. 
Do  you  confess  the  bond  ? 

Ant. 
I  do. 

Por. 
Then  must  the  Jew  be  merciful. 

Shy. 
On  what  compulsion  must  I  ?  tell  me  that 

Por. 

The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained ; 

It  droppeth,  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 

Upon  the  place  beneath :  it  is  twice  blessed ; 

It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes : 

T  is  mightiest  in  the  mightiest ;  it  becomes 

The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown ; 

His  sceptre  shows  the  force  of  temporal  power, 

The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty, 

Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings ; 

But  mercy  is  above  this  sceptered  sway, 

It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings,    - 

It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself; 

And  earthly  power  doth  then  show  likest  God's, 

When  mercy  seasons  justice.     Therefore,  Jew, 

Though  justice  be  thy  plea,  consider  this — 

That,  in  the  course  of  justice,  none  of  us 

Should  see  salvation  :  we  do  pray  for  mercy ; 


•J2  THE    MERCHANT   OF   VENICE. 

And  that  same  prayer  doth  teach  us  all  to  render 
The  deeds  of  mercy.     I  have  spoke  thus  much, 
To  mitigate  the  justice  of  thy  plea; 
Which  if  thou  follow,  this  strict  court  of  Venice 
Must  needs  give  sentence  'gainst  the  merchant  there. 

Shy. 

My  deeds  upon  my  head  !     I  crave  the  law, 
The  penalty  and  forfeit  of  my  bond. 

Por. 
Is  he  not  able  to  discharge  the  money  ? 

Bass. 

Yes,  here  I  tender  it  for  him  in  the  court ; 

Yea,  thrice  the  sum  :  if  that  will  not  suffice, 

I  will  be  bound  to  pay  it  ten  times  o'er, 

On  forfeit  of  my  hands,  my  head,  my  heart : 

If  this  will  not  suffice,  it  must  appear 

That  malice  bears  down  truth.     And  I  beseech  you, 

Wrest  once  the  law  to  your  authority  : 

To  do  a  great  right,  do  a  little  wrong, 

And  curb  this  cruel  devil  of  his  will. 

Por. 

It  must  not  be ;  there  is  no  power  in  Venice 

Can  alter  a  decree  established : 

'T  will  be  recorded  for  a  precedent ; 

And  many  an  error,  by  the  same  example, 

Will  rush  into  the  state : — it  cannot  be. 

Shy. 

A  Daniel  come  to  judgment !  yea,  a  Daniel ! 

0  wise  young  judge,  how  do  I  honour  thee ! 

Por. 

1  pray  you,  let  me  look  upon  the  bond. 


THE    MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  73 

Shy. 
Here  't  is,  most  reverend  doctor ;  here  it  is. 

[Gives  bond  to  Portia, 
For. 

Shylock,  there  's  thrice  thy  money  offered  thee. 

Shy. 

An  oath,  an  oath,  I  have  an  oath  in  heaven : 
Shall  I  lay  perjury  upon  my  soul  ? 
No,  not  for  Venice. 

Por. 

Why,  this  bond  is  forfeit ; 
And  lawfully  by  this  the  Jew  may  claim 
A  pound  of  flesh,  to  be  by  him  cut  off 
Nearest  the  merchant's  heart :  —  Be  merciful ; 
Take  thrice  thy  money ;  bid  me  tear  the  bond. 

Shy. 

When  it  is  paid  according  to  the  tenour. 

It  doth  appear  you  are  a  worthy  judge ; 

You  know  the  law ;  your  exposition 

Hath  been  most  sound  :  I  charge  you  by  the  law, 

Whereof  you  are  a  well-deserving  pillar, 

Proceed  to  judgment :  by  my  soul  I  swear, 

There  is  no  power  in  the  tongue  of  man 

To  alter  me :  I  stay  here  on  my  bond. 

Ant. 

Most  heartily  I  do  beseech  the  court 
To  give  the  judgment. 

Por. 

Why,  then,  thus  it  is : 
You  must  prepare  your  bosom  for  his  knife 

Shy. 
O  noble  judge !    O  excellent  young  man ! 


74  THE    MERCHANT   OF   VENICE. 

For. 

For  the  intent  and  purpose  of  the  law 

Hath  full  relation  to  the  penalty, 

Which  here  appeareth  due  upon  the  bond. 

Shy. 

'T  is  very  true :  O  wise  and  upright  judge ! 
How  much  more  elder  art  thou  than  thy  looks ! 

For. 

Therefore,  lay  bare  your  bosom. 

Shy.      {Takes  bond  from  Portia. 
Ay,  his  breast : 

So  says  the  bond ;  —  Doth  it  not,  noble  judge  ? — 
Nearest  his  heart, —  those  are  the  very  words. 

{Returns  bond  to  Portia. 

For. 

It  is  so.     Are  there  balance  here  to  weigh  the  flesh  ? 

Shy. 

I  have  them  ready. 

For. 

Have  by  some  surgeon,  Shylock,  on  your  charge, 
To  stop  his  wounds,  lest  he  do  bleed  to  death. 

Shy.     {Takes  bond  from  Portia. 
Is  it  so  nominated  in  the  bond  ? 

For. 

It  is  not  so  expressed ;  but  what  of  that  ? 
'T  were  good  you  do  so  much  for  charity. 

Shy. 

I  cannot  find  it;  't  is  not  in  the  bond. 

{Returns  bond  to  Portia. 


THE    MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  75 

Par.  \To  Antonio. 

Come,  merchant,  have  you  anything  to  say  ? 

Ant. 

But  little ;  I  am  armed,  and  well  prepared. — 
Give  me  your  hand,  Bassanio ;  fare  you  well ! 

\Portia  leaves  desk,  crosses  to  the  Duke,  confers 

with  him,  and  shows  bond. 
Grieve  not  that  I  am  fallen  to  this  for  you, 
For  herein  Fortune  shows  herself  more  kind 
Than  is  her  custom  :  it  is  still  her  use 
To  let  the  wretched  man  outlive  his  wealth, 
To  view  with  hollow  eye  and  wrinkled  brow 
An  age  of  poverty  ;  from  which  ling'ring  penance 
Of  such  a  misery  doth  she  cut  me  off. 
Commend  me  to  your  honourable  wife  : 
Tell  her  the  process  of  Antonio's  end ; 
Say,  how  I  loved  you,  speak  me  fair  in  death ; 
And,  when  the  tale  is  told,  bid  her  be  judge 
Whether  Bassanio  had  not  once  a  love. 
Repent  not  you  that  you  shall  lose  your  friend, 
And  he  repents  not  that  he  pays  your  debt; 
For,  if  the  Jew  do  cut  but  deep  enough, 
I  '11  pay  it  instantly  with  all  my  heart. 

Bass. 

Antonio,  I  am  married  to  a  wife, 
Which  is  as  dear  to  me  as  life  itself; 
But  life  itself,  my  wife,  and  all  the  world, 
Are  not  with  me  esteemed  above  thy  life ; 
I  would  lose  all,  ay,  sacrifice  them  all 
Here  to  this  devil,  to  deliver  you. 

\During  this  speech  Portia  returns  to  desk. 

Gra. 

I  have  a  wife,  whom,  I  protest,  I  love ; 
I  would  she  were  in  heaven,  so  she  could 
Entreat  some  power  to  change  this  currish  Jew. 


76  THE   MERCHANT   OF   VENICE. 

Sky. 

These  be  the  Christian  husbands  !    I  have  a  daughter ; 
Would  any  of  the  stock  of  Barrabas 
Had  been  her  husband,  rather  than  a  Christian !      [Aside. 
We  trifle  time ;  I  pray  thee  pursue  sentence. 

For. 

A  pound  of  that  same  merchant's  flesh  is  thine ; 
The  court  awards  it,  and  the  law  doth  give  it. 

Shy. 
Most  rightful  judge ! 

Por. 

And  you  must  cut  this  flesh  from  off  his  breast; 
The  law  allows  it,  and  the  court  awards  it 

Shy. 

Most  learned  judge !  — 
A  sentence  !  come,  prepare ! 

\To  Antonio ,  who    advances  to    c.   and   kneels. 
All  shrink  back. 

Por. 

Tarry  a  little; — there  is  something  else. — 
This  bond  doth  give  thee  here  no  jot  of  blood; 

{All  start. 

The  words  expressly  are,  a  pound  of  flesh : 
Take  then  thy  bond,  take  thou  thy  pound  of  flesh ; 
But,  in  the  cutting  it,  if  thou  dost  shed 
One  drop  of  Christian  blood,  thy  lands  and  goods 
Are,  by  the  laws  of  Venice,  confiscate 
Unto  the  state  of  Venice. 

[All  express  delight.     Antonio  rises  and  embraces 
Bassanio. 

Gra. 

O  upright  judge !  —  Mark,  Jew !  —  O  learned  judge ! 

Shy. 
Is  that  the  law  ? 


THE    MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  77 

For. 

Thyself  shall  see  the  act : 
For,  as  thou  urgest  justice,  be  assured 
Thou  shalt  have  justice,  more  than  thou  desirest 

Gra. 

0  learned  judge !  —  Mark,  Jew; — a  learned  judge ! 

Shy. 

1  take  this  offer  then, — pay  the  bond  thrice, 
And  let  the  Christian  go. 

£ass. 
Here  is  the  money.  [Gratiano  interposes. 

For. 

Soft! 

The  Jew  shall  have  all  justice; — soft;  —  no  haste;  — 
He  shall  have  nothing  but  the  penalty. 

Gra. 
O  Jew !  an  upright  judge,  a  learned  judge ! 

For.  [To  Shy  lock. 

Therefore,  prepare  thee  to  cut  off  the  flesh. 

Shed  thou  no  blood ;  nor  cut  thou  less,  nor  more, 

But  just  a  pound  of  flesh  :  if  thou  tak'st  more, 

Or  less,  than  a  just  pound, — be  it  but  so  much 

As  makes  it  light,  or  heavy,  in  the  substance, 

Or  the  division  of  the  twentieth  part 

Of  one  poor  scruple, — nay,  if  the  scale  do  turn 

But  in  the  estimation  of  a  hair, — 

Thou  diest,  and  all  thy  goods  are  confiscate. 

Gra. 

A  second  Daniel ;  a  Daniel,  Jew ! 
Now,  infidel,  I  have  thee  on  the  hip. 

For. 
Why  doth  the  Jew  pause  ?  take  thy  forfeiture. 


78  THE    MERCHANT   OF   VENICE. 

Shy. 
Give  me  my  principal,  and  let  me  go. 

JSass. 

I  have  it  ready  for  thee ;  here  it  is. 

[Shy lock  takes  a  bag  of  money ;  Gratiano  seizes 
and  takes  it  from  him. 

For. 

He  hath  refused  it  in  the  open  court ; 

He  shall  have  merely  justice,  and  his  bond. 

Gra. 

[Pushing  Shy  lock  towards  L. 
A  Daniel,  still  say  I ;  a  second  Daniel ! 
I  thank  thee,  Jew,  for  teaching  me  that  word. 

Shy. 
Shall  I  not  have  barely  my  principal  ? 

For. 

Thou  shalt  have  nothing  but  the  forfeiture, 

[Portia  comes  from  desk,  gives  bond  to  Shy  lock,  and 

goes  to  table  c. 
To  be  so  taken  at  thy  peril,  Jew. 

Shy. 

Why,  then  the  devil  give  him  good  of  it ! 
1 11  stay  no  longer  question. 

[  Going  R.     Gratiano  stops  him. 

Por. 
Tarry,  Jew; 

The  law  hath  yet  another  hold  on  you. 
It  is  enacted  in  the  laws  of  Venice, — 
If  it  be  proved  against  an  alien, 


THE    MERCHANT  OF   TENICE. 

That  by  direct,  or  indirect,  attempts, 
He  seek  the  life  of  any  citizen, 
The  part)'  'gainst  the  which  he  doth  contrive 
Shall  seize  one  half  his  goods ;  the  other  Ka]f 
Comes  to  the  privy  coffer  of  the  state; 
And  the  offenders  life  hes  in  the  mercy 
Of  the  duke  only,  'gainst  all  other  voice. 
In  which  predicament,  I  say,  then  stand* st : 
For  it  appears  by  manifest  proceeding, 
That,  indirecdy,  and  direcdy  too, 
Thou  hast  contrived  against  the  very  fife, 
Of  the  defendant ;  and  thou  hast  incurred 
The  danger  formerly  by  me  rehearsed. 
Down,  therefore,  and  beg  mercy  of  the  duke, 

Gra. 


79 


\Skylockisakmttokncfl;  Gr 


ike  shoulder,  during  the  rat  of  this  speech, 

then  drops  him. 

Beg  that  thou  may'st  hare  leave  to  hang  thyself: 
And  yet,  thy  wealth  being  fr^frrj  to  the  **a*y, 
Thou  hast  not  left  die  value  of  a  cord; 
Therefore,  thou  must  be  hanged  at  the  state's  charge. 

DuJu. 

That  thou  shalt  see  the  difiprrncp  of  oar  spirit, 
I  pardon  thee  thy  life  before  thon  ask  k: 
For  half  thy  wealth,  it  is  Antonio's; 
The  other  half  comes  to  the  general  state, 
Which  humbleness  may  drive  unto  a  fine. 

Par. 

for  the  state;  not  for  Antonio. 
Sky. 

Nay,  take  my  life  and  all ;  pardon  not  that : 
You  take  my  house,  when  you  do  take  the  prop 
That  doth  sustain  my  boose;  you  take  my  life, 
When  vou  do  take  the  means  wbaeby  I  hVe. 


So  THE    MERCHANT    OF    VENICE. 

For. 

What  mercy  can  you  render  him,  Antonio  ? 

\Shylock  rises 
Gra. 

A  halter  gratis;  nothing  else,  for  heaven's  sake! 

Ant. 

So  please  my  lord  the  duke,  and  all  the  court, 

To  quit  the  fine  for  one  half  of  his  goods, 

I  am  content,  so  he  will  let  me  have 

The  other  half  in  use,  to  render  it, 

Upon  his  death,  unto  the  gentleman 

That  lately  stole  his  daughter ; 

Two  things  provided  more, — that,  for  this  favour, 

He  presently  become  a  Christian ; 

The  other,  that  he  do  record  a  gift, 

Here  in  the  court,  of  all  he  dies  possessed, 

Unto  his  son  Lorenzo  and  his  daughter. 

Duke. 

He  shall  do  this ;  or  else  I  do  recant 
The  pardon  that  I  late  pronounced  here. 

Por.      [Advances.     To  Shybck. 
Art  thou  contented,  Jew ;  what  dost  thou  say  ? 

Shy. 
I  am  content. 

&>r.  [Goes  up. 

Clerk,  draw  a  deed  of  gift. 

Shy. 

1  pray  you  give  me  leave  to  go  from  hence : 
I  am  not  well.     Send  the  deed  after  me, 
And  I  will  sign  it. 


THE   MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  8 1 

Duke. 
Get  thee  gone,  but  do  it. 

Gra. 

[As  Shylock  is  going,  Gratiano  seizes  his  left  arm. 
In  christ'ning,  thou  shalt  have  two  godfathers ; 
Had  I  been  judge,  thou  shouldst  have  had  ten  more, 
To  bring  thee  to  the  gallows,  not  the  font. 

[Exit  Shylock  R.  i.  E. 

Duke.  [To  Portia. 

Sir,  I  entreat  you  home  with  me  to  dinner. 

For. 

I  humbly  do  desire  your  grace  of  pardon. 
I  must  away  this  night  toward  Padua, 
And  it  is  meet  I  presently  set  forth. 

Duke. 

I  am  sorry  that  your  leisure  serves  you  not.  — 

Antonio,  gratify  this  gentleman, 

For  in  my  mind  you  are  much  bound  to  him. 

[Exeunt  Duke  and  Attendants. 
Bass. 

Most  worthy  gentleman,  I  and  my  friend 
Have  by  your  wisdom  been  this  day  acquitted 
Of  grievous  penalties  ;  in  lieu  whereof, 
Three  thousand  ducats,  due  unto  the  Jew, 
We  freely  cope  your  courteous  pains  withal. 

Ant. 

And  stand  indebted,  over  and  above, 
In  love  and  service  to  you  evermore. 


82  THE   MERCHANT   OF  VENICE. 

For. 

He  is  well  paid  that  is  well  satisfied  ; 

And  I,  delivering  you,  am  satisfied. 

I  pray  you,  know  me  when  we  meet  again. 

Bass. 

Take  some  remembrance  of  us,  as  a  tribute. 
Not  as  a  fee. 

For. 

Well,  for  your  love,  I'll  take  this  ring  from  you. 
Do  not  draw  back  your  hand  :  I'll  take  no  more* 
And  you  in  love  shall  not  deny  me  this. 

Bass. 

This  ring,  good  sir,  —  alas,  it  is  a  trifle  ; 
I  will  not  shame  myself  to  give  you  this. 

For. 

I  will  have  nothing  else  but  only  this ; 
And  now,  methinks,  I  have  a  mind  to  it. 

Bass. 

There's  more  depends  on  this  than  on  the  value  t 
The  dearest  ring  in  Venice  will  I  give  you ; 
Only  for  this,  I  pray  you,  pardon  me. 

For. 

I  see,  sir,  you  are  liberal  in  offers : 

You  taught  me  first  to  beg,  and  now  methinks 

You  teach  me  how  a  beggar  should  be  answered. 

Bass. 

Good  sir,  this  ring  was  given  me  by  my  wife  ; 
And  when  she  put  it  on,  she  made  me  vow 
That  I  should  neither  sell,  nor  give,  nor  lose  it. 


THE   MERCHANT  OF   VENICE.  83 

For. 

That  'scuse  serves  many  men  to  save  their  gifts. 

An  if  your  wife  be  not  a  mad  woman, 

And  know  how  well  I  have  deserved  this  ring, 

She  would  not  hold  out  enemy  forever 

For  giving  it  to  me.     Well,  peace  be  with  you  I 

\_Exeunt  Portia  and  Nerissa 

Ant. 

My  lord  Bassanio,  let  him  have  the  ring ; 

Let  his  deservings,  and  my  love  withal, 

Be  valued  'gainst  your  wife's  commandment. 

Bass. 

Go,  Gratiano,  run  and  overtake  him ; 
Give  him  the  ring.     Away  !  make  haste  ! 
And  in  the  morning  early  will  we  both 
Fly  towards  Belmont.     Come,  Antonio. 

CURTAIN. 


SUct 

THE  GARDEN  AT  BELMONT. 

[Enter  Jessica  and  Launcelot.  — Lorenzo  at  distance. 

Laun. 

Yes,  truly :  for,  look  you,  the  sins  of  the  father  are  to 
be  laid  upon  the  children ;  therefore  I  promise  you,  I  fear 
you.  I  was  always  plain  with  you,  and  so  now  I  speak  my 
agitation  of  the  matter :  therefore  be  of  good  cheer ;  for 
truly,  I  think  —  you  are  damned.  There  's  but  one  hope 
in  it  that  can  do  you  any  good,  and  that  is  but  a  kind  of 
bastard  hope  neither. 

Jes. 
And  what  hope  is  that,  I  pray  thee  ? 

Laun. 

Marry,  you  may  partly  hope  that  your  father  got  you 
not,  that  you  are  not  the  Jew's  daughter. 

Jes. 

That  were  a  kind  of  bastard  hope,  indeed ;  so  the  sins 
of  my  mother  should  be  visited  upon  me. 

Laun. 

Truly,  then,  I  fear  you  are  damned  both  by  father  and 
mother :  thus  when  I  shun  Scylla,  your  father,  I  fall  into 
Charybdis,  your  mother.  Well,  you  are  gone  both  ways. 


THE   MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  85 

Jes. 

I  shall  be  saved  by  my  husband :  he  hath  made  me  a 
Christian. 

Laun. 

Truly,  the  more  to  blame  he  :  we  were  Christians 
enough  before ;  e'en  as  many  as  could  well  live  one  by 
another.  This  making  of  Christians  will  raise  the  price  of 
hogs  ;  if  we  grow  all  to  be  pork-eaters,  we  shall  not  shortly 
have  a  rasher  on  the  coals  for  money. 

Jes. 
I'll  tell  my  husband,  Launcelot,  what  you  say. 

Lor.  [  Comes  down. 

I  shall  grow  jealous  of  you  shortly,  Launcelot,  if  you 
thus  get  my  wife  into  corners. 

Jes. 

Nay,  you  need  not  fear  us,  Lorenzo .  Launcelot  and  I 
are  out;  he  tells  me  flatly  there  is  no  mercy  for  me  in 
heaven,  because  I  am  a  Jew's  daughter. 

Lor. 
Go  in,  sirrah  !  bid  them  prepare  for  dinner. 

Laun. 
That  is  done,  sir :  they  have  all  stomachs. 

Lor. 

Goodly  lord,  what  a  wit-snapper  are  you  !  Then  bid 
them  prepare  dinner. 


86  THE   MERCHANT   OF   VENICE. 

Laitn. 
That  is  done  too,  sir ;  only  cover  is  the  word. 

Lor. 
Will  you  cover  then,  sir  ? 

Laun. 
Not  so,  sir,  neither ;  I  know  my  duty. 

Lor. 

Yet  more  quarrelling  with  occasion?  Wilt  thou  show 
the  whole  wealth  of  thy  wit  in  an  instant?  I  pray  thee, 
understand  a  plain  man  in  his  plain  meaning.  Go  to  thy 
fellows,  bid  them  cover  the  table,  serve  in  the  meat,  and 
we  will  come  in  to  dinner. 

Laun. 

For  the  table,  sir,  it  shall  be  served  in ;  for  the  meat, 
sir,  it  shall  be  covered ;  for  your  coming  in  to  dinner,  sir, 
why,  let  it  be  as  humours  and  conceits  shall  govern. 

\_Exit  Launcelot. 

Lor. 

The  moon  shines  bright.     In  such  a  night  as  this, 
When  the  sweet  wind  did  gently  kiss  the  trees, 
And  they  did  make  no  noise  ;  in  such  a  night, 
Troilus,  methinks,  mounted  the  Trojan  walls, 
And  sighed  his  soul  toward  the  Grecian  tents, 
Where  Cressid  lay  that  night. 

Jes. 

In  such  a  night 

Did  Thisbe  fearfully  o'ertrip  the  dew, 
And  saw  the  lion'?  shadow  ere  himself, 
And  ran  dismayed  away. 


THE   MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  87 

Lor. 

In  such  a  night 

Stood  Dido,  with  a  willow  in  her  hand, 
Upon  the  wild  sea-banks,  and  waft  her  love 
To  come  again  to  Carthage. 

Jes. 

In  such  a  night 

Medea  gathered  the  enchanted  herbs 
That  did  renew  old 


Lor. 

In  such  a  night 

Did  Jessica  steal  from  the  wealthy  Jew, 
And  with  an  unthrift  love  did  run  from  Venice 
As  far  as  Belmont. 

yes. 

In  such  a  night 

Did  young  Lorenzo  swear  he  loved  her  well  : 
Stealing  her  soul  with  many  vows  of  faith, 
And  ne'er  a  true  one. 

Lor. 

And  in  such  a  night 
Did  pretty  Jessica,  like  a  little  shrew, 
Slander  her  love,  and  he  forgave  her  ! 

Jes. 

I  would  outnight  you,  did  nobody  come  ; 
But  hark  !  I  hear  the  footing  of  a  man. 

[Enter  Balthazar  and  servants. 

Lor. 
Who  comes  so  fast  in  silence  of  the  night  ? 


88  THE  MERCHANT  *OF   VENICE. 

Bal. 
A  friend. 

Lor. 
A  friend  ?  What  friend  ?  Your  name,  I  pray  you,  friend. 

Bal. 

Balthazar  is  my  name  ;  and  I  bring  word 
My  mistress  will,  before  the  break  of  day, 
Be  here  at  Belmont.     She  doth  stray  about 
By  holy  crosses,  where  she  kneels  and  prays 
For  happy  wedlock  hours. 

Lor. 

But  who  comes  with  her? 

Bal. 

None  but  a  holy  hermit  and  her  maid. 
I  pray  you,  is  my  master  yet  returned  ? 

Lor. 

He  is  not,  nor  we  have  not  heard  from  him.  — 

But  go  we  in,  I  pray  thee,  Jessica, 

And  ceremoniously  let  us  prepare 

Some  welcome  for  the  mistress  of  the  house. 

Laun.  \Without 

Sola,  sola,  too  ha,  ho,  sola,  sola  ! 

Lor. 
\Vhocalls?  \EnterLauncelot. 

Laun. 

Sola  !     did    you    see    Master    Lorenzo    and    Mistress 
Lorenzo  ?     Sola,  sola  ! 


THE   MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  89 

Lor. 
Leave  holloaing,  man,  here. 

Laun. 
Sola  !    Where  ?  where  ? 

Lor. 
Here. 

Laun. 

Tell  him  there  's  a  post  come  from  my  master,  with  his 
horn  full  of  good  news :  my  master  will  be  here  ere 
morning.  \Exit. 

Lor. 

Sweet  soul,  let  's  in,  and  there  expect  their  coming. 
And  yet  no  matter ;  why  should  we  go  in  ? 
My  friend  Balthazar,  signify,  I  pray  you, 
Within  the  house,  your  mistress  is  at  hand ; 
And  bring  your  music  forth  into  the  air. 

{Exit  Balthazar. 

How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank  ! 
Here  will  we  sit,  and  let  the  sounds  of  music 
Creep  in  our  ears.     Soft  stillness  and  the  night 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. 
Sit,  Jessica.     Look  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold  ! 
There  's  not  the  smallest  orb  which  thou  belioldest 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings, 
Still  quiring  to  the  young-eyed  cherubins. 
Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls ; 
But  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  it  in,  we  cannot  hear  it. 
Come,  ho  !  and  wake  Diana  with  a  hymn  : 
With  sweetest  touches  pierce  your  mistress'  ear, 
And  draw  her  home  with  music.  [Music. 


90  THE   MERCHANT   OF   VENICE. 

Jes. 
I  am  never  merry  when  I  hear  music. 

Lor. 

The  reason  is,  your  spirits  are  attentive. 

For  do  but  note  a  wild  and  wanton  herd, 

Or  race  of  youthful  and  unhandled  colts, 

Fetching  mad  bounds,  bellowing  and  neighing  loud, 

Which  is  the  hot  condition  of  their  blood  : 

If  they  but  hear  perchance  a  trumpet  sound, 

Or  any  air  of  music  touch  their  ears, 

You  shall  perceive  them  make  a  mutual  stand, 

Their  savage  eyes  turn'd  to  modest  gaze 

By  the  sweet  power  of  music. 

Therefore  the  poet 

Did  feign  that  Orpheus  drew  trees,  stones,  and  floods ; 

Since  nought  so  stockish,  hard,  and  full  of  rage, 

But  music  for  the  time  doth  change  his  nature. 

The  man  that  hath  no  music  in  himself, 

Nor  is  not  moved  with  concord  of  sweet  sounds, 

Is  fit  for  treasons,  stratagems,  and  spoils ; 

The  motions  of  his  spirit  are  dull  as  night, 

And  his  affections  dark  as  Erebus,  — 

Let  no  such  man  be  trusted. 

Mark  the  music.  [Enter  Portia  and  Nerissa, 

For. 

That  light  we  see  burning  in  my  hall, 

How  far  that  little  candle  throws  his  beams  ! 

So  shines  a  good  deed  in  a  naughty  world. 

Ner. 
When  the  moon  shone,  we  did  not  see  the  candle. 

For. 

So  doth  the  greater  glory  dim  the  less : 
A  substitute  shines  brightly  as  the  king 


THE   MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  91 

Until  a  king  be  by ;  and  then  his  state 
Empties  itself,  as  doth  an  inland  brook 
Into  the  main  of  waters. 
Music  !  hark  ! 

Ner. 
It  is  your  music,  madam,  of  the  house. 

For. 

Nothing  is  good,  I  see,  without  respect : 
Methinks  it  sounds  much  sweeter  than  by  day. 

Ner. 
Silence  bestows  that  virtue  on  it,  madame. 

For. 

The  crow  doth  sing  as  sweetly  as  the  lark 

When  neither  is  attended ;  and  I  think 

The  nightingale,  if  she  should  sing  by  day, 

When  every  goose  is  cackling,  would  be  thought 

No  better  a  musician  than  a  wren. 

How  many  things  by  season  seasoned  are 

To  their  right  praise  and  true  perfection  ! 

Peace,  ho  !  the  moon  sleeps  with  Endymion, 

And  would  not  be  awak'd.  [Music  ceases. 

Lor, 

That  is  the  voice,  or  I  am  much  deceived, 
Of  Portia. 

For. 

He  knows  me,  as  the  blind  man  knows  the  cuckoo, 
By  die  bad  voice. 

Lor. 
Dear  lady,  welcome  home. 


92  THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

For. 

We  have  been  praying  for  our  husbands'  welfare, 
Which  speed,  we  hope,  the  better  for  our  words. 
Are  they  returned  ? 

Lor. 

Madam,  they  are  not  yet ; 

But  there  is  come  a  messenger  before 

To  signify  their  coming. 

For. 

Go  in,  Nerissa : 

Give  order  to  my  servants  that  they  take 
No  note  at  all  of  our  being  absent  hence ; 
Nor  you,  Lorenzo ;  Jessica,  nor  you.  [  Trumpet. 

Lor. 

Your  husband  is  at  hand :  I  hear  his  trumpet. 
We  are  no  tell-tales,  madam :  fear  you  not. 

For. 

This  night,  methinks,  is  but  the  daylight  sick ; 
It  looks  a  little  paler  :  't  is  a  day 
Such  as  the  day  is  when  the  sun  is  hid. 

[Enter  Bassanio,  Antonio,  Gratiano, 
and  their  followers. 

Bass. 

We  should  hold  day  with  the  antipodes 
If  you  would  walk  in  absence  of  the  sun. 

For. 

Let  me  give  light,  but  let  me  not  be  light ; 

For  a  light  wife  doth  make  a  heavy  husband, 

And  never  be  Bassanio  so  for  me. 

But  God  sort  all !     You  are  welcome  home,  my  lord. 


THE   MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  93 

Bass. 

I  thank  you,  madam.     Give  welcome  to  my  triend. 
This  is  the  man,  this  is  Antonio, 
To  whom  I  am  so  infinitely  bound. 

For. 

You  should  in  all  sense  be  much  bound  to  him ; 
For,  as  I  hear,  he  was  much  bound  for  you. 

Ant. 
No  more  than  I  am  well  acquitted  of. 

For. 

Sir,  you  are  very  welcome  to  our  house. 
It  must  apoear  in  other  ways  than  words, 
Therefore  I  scant  this  breathing  courtesy. 

Gra.  \_To  Ntnssa. 

By  yonder  moon  I  swear  you  do  me  wrong : 
In  faith  I  gave  it  to  the  judge's  clerk. 

For. 
A  quarrel,  ho,  already  ?    What  's  the  matter  ? 

Gra. 

About  a  hoop  of  gold,  a  paltry  ring 
That  she  did  give  to  me ;  whose  posy  was, 
For  all  the  world,  like  cutler's  poetry 
Upon  a  knife,  "  Love  me,  and  leave  me  not." 

Ner. 

What  talk  you  of  the  posy,  or  the  value  ? 
You  swore  to  me,  when  I  did  give  it  you, 
That  you  would  wear  it  till  your  hour  of  death. 
And  that  it  should  lie  with  you  in  your  grave. 


94  THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

Though  not  for  me,  yet  for  your  vehement  oaths 
You  should  have  been  respective,  and  have  kept  it 
Gave  it  a  judge's  clerk  !  but  well  I  know 
The  clerk  will  ne'er  wear  hair  on  his  face 
That  had  it. 

Gra. 

He  will,  an  if  he  live  to  be  a  man. 

Ner. 
Ay,  if  a  woman  live  to  be  a  man. 

Gra. 

Now,  by  this  hand,  I  gave  it  to  a  youth,  — 
A  kind  of  boy :  a  little  scrubbed  boy 
No  higher  than  thyself,  the  judge's  clerk  !  — 
A  prating  boy,  that  begged  it  as  a  fee  ; 
I  could  not  for  my  heart  deny  it  him. 

For. 

You  are  to  blame,  I  must  be  plain  with  you, 
To  part  so  slightly  with  your  wife's  first  gift,  — 
A  thing  stuck  on  with  oaths  upon  your  finger, 
And  riveted  so  with  faith  unto  your  flesh. 
I  gave  my  love  a  ring,  and  made  him  swear 
Never  to  part  with  it ;  and  here  he  stands  : 
I  dare  be  sworn  for  him,  he  would  not  leave  it, 
Nor  pluck  it  from  his  finger,  for  the  wealth 
That  the  world  masters.     Now  in  faith,  Gratiano, 
You  gave  your  wife  too  unkind  a  cause  of  grief; 
An  't  were  to  me,  I  should  be  mad  at  it. 

Bass.  \Aside 

Why,  I  were  best  to  cut  my  left  hand  off, 
And  swear  I  lost  the  ring  defending  it. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 
Gra. 

My  lord  Bassanio  gave  his  ring  away 
Unto  the  judge  that  begged  it,  and  indeed 
Deserved  it  too ;  and  then  the  boy,  his  clerk, 
That  took  some  pains,  he  begged  mine  ; 
And  neither  man  nor  master  would  take  aught 
But  the  two  rings. 

For. 

\Yhat  ring  gave  you,  my  lord  ? 

\ot  that,  I  hope,  which  you  received  of  me? 

Bass. 

If  I  could  add  a  lie  unto  a  fault, 

I  would  deny  it ;  but  you  see  my  finger 

Hath  not  a  ring  upon  it,  —  it  is  gone. 

For. 
Even  so  void  is  your  false  heart  of  truth. 

Bass. 

Sweet  Portia, 

If  you  did  know  to  whom  I  gave  the  ring, 

If  you  did  know  for  whom  I  gave  the  ring, 

And  would  conceive  for  what  I  gave  the  ring, 

And  how  unwillingly  I  left  the  ring, 

When  nought  would  be  accepted  but  the  ring, 

You  would  abate  the  strength  of  your  displeasure. 

For. 

If  you  had  known  the  value  of  the  ring, 

Or  half  her  worthiness  that  gave  the  ring, 

Or  your  own  honour  to  retain  the  ring, 

You  would  not  then  have  parted  with  the  ring. 

Nerissa  teaches  me  what  to  believe  : 

I'll  die  for  't,  but  some  woman  had  the  ring. 


96  THE  MERCHANT   OF  VENICE. 

Bass. 

No,  by  mine  honour,  madam,  by  my  soul, 

No  woman  had  it,  but  a  civil  doctor, 

Even  he  that  had  held  up  the  very  life 

Of  my  dear  friend.     What  should  I  say,  sweet  lady  ? 

I  was  enforced  to  send  it  after  him. 

I  was  beset  with  shame  and  courtesy  : 

My  honour  would  not  let  ingratitude 

So  much  besmear  it.     Pardon  me,  good  lady, 

And  by  these  blessed  candles  of  the  night, 

Had  you  been  there,  I  think  you  would  have  begged 

The  ring  of  me,  to  give  the  worthy  doctor. 

For. 

Let  not  that  doctor  e'er  come  near  my  house ; 
Since  he  hath  got  the  jewel  that  I  loved, 
And  that  which  you  did  swear  to  keep  for  me, 
I  will  become  as  liberal  as  you  : 
I'll  not  deny  him  anything  I  have. 

Ant. 
I  am  the  unhappy  subject  of  these  quarrels. 

For. 
Sir,  grieve  not  you  :  you  are  welcome,  notwithstanding. 

Bass. 

Portia,  forgive  me  this  enforced  wrong ; 
And,  in  the  hearing  of  these  many  friends, 
I  swear  to  thee,  even  by  thine  fair  eyes, 
Wherein  I  see  myself,  — 

For. 

Mark  you  but  that ! 

In  both  my  eyes  he  doubly  sees  himself; 
In  each  eye,  one.     Swear  by  your  double  self, 
And  there  "s  an  oath  of  credit. 


THE  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  97 

Bass. 

Nay,  but  hear  me. 

Pardon  this  fault,  and  by  my  soul  I  swear 
I  never  more  will  break  an  oath  with  thee. 

Ant. 

I  once  did  lend  my  body  for  his  wealth, 
Which  but  for  him  that  had  your  husband's  ring 
Had  quite  miscarried  :  I  dare  be  bound  again, 
My  soul  upon  the  forfeit,  that  your  lord 
Will  never  more  break  faith  advisedly. 

For. 

Then  you  shall  be  his  surety  :  give  him  this, 
And  bid  him  keep  it  better  than  the  other. 

Ant. 
Here,  Lord  Bassanio  :  swear  to  keep  this  ring. 

Bass.  [Amazed. 

By  heaven  !  it  is  the  same  I  gave  the  doctor ! 

For. 

You  are  all  amazed. 

Here  is  a  letter,  read  it  at  your  leisure ; 

It  comes  from  Padua,  from  Bellario  : 

There  you  shall  find  that  Portia  was  the  doctor, 

Nerissa,  there,  her  clerk.     Unseal  this  letter  soon  ; 

There  you  shall  find  three  of  your  argosies 

Are  richly  come  to  harbour  suddenly. 

Bass. 
Were  you  the  doctor,  and  I  knew  you  not? 


98  THE    MERCHANT   OK   VENICE. 

Gra. 
Were  you  the  clerk,  and  I  knew  you  not  ? 

Por. 

It  is  almost  morning, 
And  yet,  I  am  sure,  you  are  not  satisfied 
Of  these  events  at  full :  let  us  go  in ; 
And  charge  us  there  upon  inter'gatories,. 
And  we  will  answer  all  things  faithfully. 

CURTAIN. 


MERCHANT   OF  VENICE. 

APPENDIX. 

I. — THE  PERSECUTION  OF  THE  JEWS. 

"The  Helots  of  Sparta,  the  Pariahs  of  India,  the  Ghiaours  of  Tur- 
key, the  Negroes  of  America,  have  suffered  less  than  the  Jews  in 
Christian  Europe.     This  unhappy  people  have  had  to  bewail  their  fate 
during  centuries  of  prejudice,   not  extinguished  even  in  our  times, 
which  renders  the  children  responsible  for  the  good  or  bad  actions  of 
their  parents.     In  the  eyes  of  Christian  nations  this  people  was  always 
the  same  populace  who  demanded  of  Pilate  the  murder  of  God  in  His 
mortality.      Every  Christian  had  against  the  Jew  a  personal  grievance, 
and  retained  a  feeling  of  enmity  against  him  on  account  of  the  crime 
committed  by  Judas.     The  Israelite  was  thrust  out  from  the  pale  of 
humanity  ;  it  was  an  act  of  piety  to  injure,  molest,  and  ill-treat  him. 
Different  governments,  far  from  checking  the  popular  prejudice,  en- 
couraged and  sanctioned  it.     From  the  year  615  the  Council  of  Paris 
had  declared  the  Jews  to  be  incapable  of  performing  any  civil  function  ; 
other  councils  had  forbidden  them  to  work  for  Christians  ;   royal  edicts 
had  interdicted  them  the  right  to  possess   landed   property.      Thus 
harassed  by  legislation,  hunted   away  from  trade,  spurned   from  the 
paths  of  industry,  excommunicated  from  the  fields  of  labor,  the  Jew 
had  to  tax  his  ingenuity  to  be  enabled  to  exist.      He  eluded  by  cunning 
the  code  that  proposed  to  starve  him  ;   he  converted  all  his  property 
into  ready  money  and  traded  in  specie  ;   he  accumulated  gold,  monopo- 
lized the  sale  of  it,  and  obtained  whatever  price  he  asked  for  it — he 
became  a  usurer.     This  degrading  commerce,  to  which  the  Christian 
had  forcibly  reduced  him,  was  used  by  him  against  the  Christian,  and 
the  overflowings  of  the  cup  of  his  despair  were  employed  as  the  instru 
ment  of  his  revenge.     The  Christian  had  forbidden  him  to  obtain  an 
honest  livelihood  ;   he  made,  at  the  expense  of  the  Christian,  an  in- 
ordinate and  unjust  profit.    The  Christian  would  ruin  him  ;  he  enriched 
himself  by  the  ruin  of  the  Christian. 

99 


100  APPENDIX. 

"  But  this  very  success  was  fatal  to  the  Israelites.  The  opulence  of 
the  infidels  excited  the  cupidity  of  the  faithful.  Was  a  Catholic  lord, 
prince,  or  baron  embarrassed  in  his  finance,  without  having  recourse  to 
the  form  of  any  legal  process  he  seized  some  moneyed  man  from  the 
tribe,  and  exacted  money  from  him  by  torture.  Thus,  in  the  year  1210, 
John,  King  of  England,  borrowed  ten  thousand  marks  of  a  Hebrew,  in 
Bristol,  by  causing  ten  of  his  teeth  to  be  extracted.  The  Jew  was  as  a 
princely  and  fertile  farm  that  was  well  cultivated  by  the  despot.  Ac- 
cording to  Matthew  Paris,  this  same  John,  being  in  want  of  ready 
money,  lent  on  hire  for  several  years  to  his  brother  Richard  all  the 
Jews  on  his  estates,  ut  quos  rex  excoriaverat,  comes  evisceraret,  so  that, 
after  being  fleeced  by  the  king,  they  should  be  stripped  of  what  was 
left  them  by  the  earl ;  it  was  but  a  circumstance  of  the  most  trifling 
nature.  In  1262  the  lords  revolted  against  Henry  III,  and  only  ob- 
tained the  support  of  the  people  by  promising  them  the  pillage  of  the 
Jewish  quarter  in  London.  Three  hundred  houses  were  sacked  and 
seven  hundred  persons,  men,  women,  and  children,  were  assassinated. 
The  triumphant  populace  exercised  during  that  year  sovereign  rights. 
France  was  not  less  tender  to  the  Jews  than  England.  In  order  to 
prevent  their  escaping  confiscation  by  abjuration,  St.  Louis  caused  the 
Synod  of  Melun  to  confirm  the  edict  which  confiscated  to  the  benefit 
of  the  seigneur  the  property  of  every  converted  Israelite.  At  the  same 
time,  with  atrocious  contradiction,  the  pious  king  permitted,  in  Paris 
and  the  provinces,  the  massacre  of  all  the  Israelites  who  refused  to  be 
converted.  In  Brie,  Touraine,  Anjou,  Poitou,  and  Maine  two  thousand 
five  hundred  Jews  were  massacred.  This  took  place  during  the  Easter 
week  of  the  year  of  grace  1238 — that  is  to  say,  if  I  am  not  mistaken, 
three  hundred  and  thirty-four  years  before  Saint  Bartholomew.  One 
thus  sees  that  it  is  not  only  by  date  that  Louis  IX  is  a  predecessor 
of  Charles  IX.  The  Valois  caused  the  Jews  to  be  the  victims  of  a 
skilful  process  of  periodical  depredation  ;  every  now  and  then  they 
were  exiled  to  be  plundered  and  then  were  recalled  to  be  robbed. 
The  Catholic  kings  turned  the  reprobates  to  account  as  ingeniously  as 
the  very  Christian  kings.  They  were  dispossessed  of  their  property, 
then  allowed  again  to  enrich  themselves,  to  be  again  despoiled.  The 
upright  Torquemada  put  an  end  to  this  sanguinary  system  :  he  de- 
manded of  Ferdinand  the  perpetual  banishment  of  all  the  Jews  who 
bad  not  abjured  their  faith  at  the  expiration  of  four  months.  The 


APPENDIX.  lot 

Jews,  informed  of  this,  offered  the  king  thirty  thousand  ducats  for  his 
consent  to  allow  them  to  remain.  Ferdinand  hesitated  to  sign  the 
decree,  when  the  monk  entered,  crucirix  in  hand,  exclaiming  :  'Judas 
Iscariot  sold  his  God  for  thirty  deniers  ;  you — you  would  sell  him  for 
thirty  thousand  !"  The  king  signed,  and  according  to  Mariana's  cal 
culation,  eight  hundred  thousand  Hebrews  were  expatriated.  What 
became  of  them  ?  Seek  for  them  in  miser)',  in  distress,  in  epidemics, 
in  pestilence,  in  famine  ;  seek  for  them  in  the  tempests  of  the  ocean  ; 
seek  for  them  from  the  lions  of  Atlas  ;  ask  for  them  from  the  men  of 
Portugal . 

"  Decimated  by  massacre  at  Lisbon,  hunted  by  the  edict  of  Charles 
VI  from  France,  from  England  by  the  statute  of  Edward  I,  from  Ger- 
many hy  the  rescript  of  Maximilian  I,  the  circumcised  crept  their  way 
to  the  north  of  Europe,  to  the  furthest  part  of  Bohemia,  to  Mecklen- 
burg and  Poland.  Here  and  there,  however,  some  liberal  and  sov- 
ereign states  admitted  them  :  Metz,  Nuremburg,  Florence,  and  Venice. 
Pontincial  Rome,  in  permitting  their  sojourn,  drew  on  them  the 
enormous  bolt  of  the  Ghetto.  But  even  in  these  tolerant  cities  the 
Israelites  were  compelled  to  wear  the  badge  of  infamy ;  they  were 
obliged  to  be  dressed  in  the  degrading  attire  ordered  by  the  Council  of 
Basle  ;  a  rowel  on  the  shoulder  or  the  breast,  and  the  yellow  cap  which 
everywhere  distinguished  them  for  the  hootings  of  the  children  and  the 
barkings  of  the  dogs.  For  a  moment  the  unfortunate  race  had  a  gleam 
of  hope  :  they  thought  that  the  Reformation  would  release  them  from 
the  anathema  through  which  they  were  prostrated  by  Catholicism. 
They  requested  permission  to  enter  those  German  States  that  had 
thrown  off  their  allegiance  to  the  Holy  See.  Luther  opposed  this. 
The  excommunicated  excommunicated  the  accursed.  They  implored 
of  Queen  Elizabeth  their  recall  to  England.  Elizabeth  refused,  and 
her  refusal  increased  her  popularity.  Protestantism,  instead  of  allaying 
the  prejudices  then  existing  against  the  Jews,  fanaticized  them : 
Protestants  sought  to  prove  their  orthodoxy  in  exaggerating  the  horror 
they  entertained  against  the  pretended  murderers  of  Christ.  Their 
zealous  credulity  lent  additional  strength  to  the  old  stories  accusing  the 
fews  of  poisoning  rivers  and  fountains,  of  communicating  leprosy,  and  of 
sacrificing  at  their  Passover  children  stolen  from  Christians.  The  poets 
repeated  in  verse  the  calumnies  that  the  preachers  reiterated  in  prose. 
The  stage -boards  of  the  theatre  echoed  the  pulpits  of  the  church.  In 


102  APPENDIX. 

1590  Christopher  Marlowe  caused  the  troop  of  the  'Cockpit'  to  per- 
form a  drama  in  which  a  certain  Jew  of  Malta,  called  Barabbas  (the 
name  is  well  chosen),  poisons  all  the  inmates  of  a  convent  in  order 
that  he  may  assure  the  poisoning  ol  his  daughter  Abigail,  who  has  been 
recently  converted. 

**  *  *  *  ****** 
"  In  giving  to  the  conduct  of  Shylock  the  motive  that  elevates  heroes 
— patriotism — in  furnishing  him  with  excuses  not  only  for  his  personal 
grief  but  for  the  secular  troubles  of  an  entire  people,  Shakespeare  has 
thereby  amnestied  the  Jew.  It  is  not  Shylock  who  is  impeached  by 
the  judgment  of  Portia  ;  in  reality  that  judgment  condemns  the  law  of 
retaliation,  that  rigorous  justice  which  is  but  a  rigorous  injustice,  that 
vindictive  legislation  which  had  been  promulgated  in  all  edicts  of  sov- 
ereigns, and  applied  without  mercy  by  all  judicial  constituted  authori- 
ties— parliaments,  special  commissions,  prevotal  courts,  assize  courts, 
star  chambers ;  it  is  directed  against  that  system  of  reprisals  which 
torments,  racks,  quarters,  hangs,  decapitates,  assassinates  the  assassin, 
washes  blood  with  blood,  and  punishes  a  fault  by  the  commission  of  a 
crime.  The  condemned  is  not  the  Jew,  it  is  Judaism.  Such,  in  fact, 
is  the  actual  import  of  the  pronounced  sentence.  Shylock  has  gained 
what  is  better  than  his  cause — he  has  gained  the  cause  of  an  entire 
people.  He  has  caused  the  unknown  rights  of  his  race  to  be  recog- 
nized, and  enabled  them  to  prevail  by  the  exemplary  condemnation  of 
that  exterminatory  code  which  hitherto  had  kept  them  in  abeyance." 

VICTOR  HUGO. 


II. — THE  CHARACTER  OF  SHYLOCK. 

"  When  heaven  sends  a  prophet  like  Shakespeare  to  an  ignorant 
world,  it  commissions  him  not  merely  to  teach  us  how  to  read. 
Shakespeare's  mission  was  neither  to  preach  nor  to  teach  ;  and  if  ever 
he  did  desire  to  act  the  schoolmaster,  it  was  to  the  Christians  and  not 
the  Jews  that  he  addressed  the  lesson  of  '  The  Merchant  of  Venice.' 
Due  respect  to  Shylock' s  Judaism  !  a  morality  that  despises  all  trivial 
passions.  But  there  is  something  grand  and  sublime  in  his  nature, 
which  looks  down  with  haughty  scorn  upon  his  meanness.  Shylock  is 
an  exalted  Jew  and  an  avenging  angel.  He  has  reached  such  a  height 
of  sensibility  that  he  is  capable  of  doing  a  magnanimous  deed — not  in 


APPENDIX.  103 

the  way  of  mere  usury,  to  increase  his  gains,  but  for  the  benefit  of  man- 
kind, lie  desires  to  revenge  his  abused  and  down-trodden  race  upon 
its  tormentors,  the  Christians.  We  despise  in  Shylock  the  devil  of 
avarice  ;  but  the  distressed  and  suffering  man  we  pity  ;  and  we  admire 
and  even  love  the  avenger  of  inhuman  persecution.  *  *  *  Who 
can  say  that  Shylock  would  really  have  executed  his  threat !  We  do 
not  forget  the  sacriiice  that  he  is  willing  to  make  to  his  revenge. 
Shylock  will  give  all,  and  more  than  all — that  profit  which  to  the  Jew 
is  more  than  possession — for  his  revenge.  He  has  trusted  to  the  gods 
of  vengeance,  to  tke  wild  winds  and  the  cruel  sea,  and  they  have  not 
deceived  him.  Nor  must  we  be  misled  by  Shylock' s  saying  that  he 
hates  Antonio — 

"  '  For  that  in  low  simplicity, 
He  lends  out  money  gratis,  and  brings  down 
The  rate  of  usance  here  with  us  in  Venice.' 

Shylock  did  not  hate  Antonio  for  that.  The  Christian  mercantile  and 
commercial  world  of  Venice  surely  was  not  composed  of  only  good  and 
noble  Antonios  ;  and  one  man,  be  he  ever  so  rich,  cannot  reduce  the 
value  of  money.  No ;  Shylock  is  a  Jew  :  he  feels  a  secret  shame  in 
sacrificing  money  to  a  phantasy ;  he  wants  to  excuse  his  conduct  to 
himself— and  the  excuse  that  he  finds  is  couched  in  the  words  we 
have  quoted.  He  does  not  persecute  the  foe  of  usury  in  Antonio  : 
but  the  foe  of  his  faith  he  persecutes,  and  in  his  feverish  infatuation  he 
sacrifices  wealth  to  an  airy  fancy.  The  actor  who  would  personate 
Shylock  may  herein  find  the  key  to  the  character.  The  blood-thirsty 
hatred  of  the  Jew  should  terrify  us,  as  every  mad  fanaticism  naturally 
does  ;  but  Shylock  must  not  be  so  interpreted  as  to  awaken  disgust 
and  aversion,  as  does  a  loathsome  bodily  disease.  Shylock's  execrable 
avarice,  and  the  spasms  into  which  self-interest  hurls  his  soul,  may 
revolt  us ;  but  the  Jew  must  not  herein  be  made  ridiculous.  In  the 
presence  of  a  very  demon  it  is  no  time  for  laughter.  Now,  to  show  us 
the  god  in  the  demon,  to  pass  through  a  desert  of  sin  wherein,  not  far 
distant,  murmurs  concealed  a  well-spring  of  love — this,  surely,  is  a 
sufficiently  hard  and  great  task  for  the  actor.  Shakespeare,  unlike 
common  men  and  common  poets,  who  desire  to  make  everything 
pleasant  to  their  feelings  and  conformable  to  their  notions  of  art,  does 
not  mingle  elements  like  a  chemist,  representing  clear  characters, 


104  APPENDIX. 

these  lovely,  those  hateful,  these  attractive,  those  repulsive  :  this 
Shakespeare  never  does.  He  sides  with  no  party.  He  ascribes  the 
palm  only  to  virtue.  He  lets  his  characters  quarrel  among  themselves 
and  never  mingles  in  the  quarrel.  He  has  explained  the  nature  of  the 
Jew's  hatred  of  the  Christian  and  equally  laid  bare  the  springs  of  the 
Christian's  hatred  of  the  Jew.  Why  should  not  Shylock  hate  Antonio 
— hate  him  the  more  for  his  very  nobility  ?  Antonio  is  a  good,  noble, 
generous  man,  but  not  to  the  Jew.  Him  he  abuses  at  all  times. 
Even  at  the  very  moment  of  asking  his  aid  he  cannot  conceal  his  con- 
tempt for  Shylock.  The  good,  the  noble  Antonio,  who  is  willing  to 
sacrifice  everything  upon  the  altar  of  friendship,  cannot  even  speak  a 
kind  word  to  the  Jew.  After  all  this,  a  scapegrace  of  a  Christian  runs 
away  with  Shylock's  daughter ;  and  she,  intending  to  become  a  Chris- 
tian, enters  upon  conversion  by  despising  her  father  because  he  is  a 
Jew.  Such  injustice,  such  cruelty  might  well  convert  the  nature  of 
a  dove  into  that  of  a  dragon.  In  his  hatred  of  the  Christian  Shylock 
revenges  upon  himself  insulted  virtue  He  throws  away  money  to 
avenge  his  race,  and  he  learns  and  teaches  that  gold  is  not,  as  the 
Jews  would  have  it,  the  monarch  of  the  world,  but  that  love  is  mightier 
than  avarice,  even  in  a  Jew. 

"  Whenever  I  read  Shakespeare  it  grieves  me  that  he  does  not  live 
in  our  age,  to  make  it  clear  to  us.  Events  seem  unreal,  when  the 
great  master  is  wanting,  to  state  them  to  us  in  a  great  manner.  A 
character  which  that  great  poet  has  not  described  to  us,  because  it  was 
unknown  to  him,  is  like  a  book  without  a  title,  that  we  must  read 
before  we  can  know  its  subject.  It  often  happens  that  great  periods 
have  no  great  historians,  nor  poets,  nor  artists,  capable  of  worthily 
describing  or  representing  them.  The  great  events  are  too  grand,  too 
restless,  or  too  busy  to  pose  quietly  before  common  artists.  These  can 
but  briefly  snatch  their  outlines,  or  must  wait  till  the  time  be  dead,  in 
order  to  make  a  lifeless  cast.  But,  before  an  artist  like  Shakespeare, 
times  stand  still,  well  knowing  that  nature  owes  its  immortality  to  art. 
How  would  Shakespeare  have  described  our  Shylocks,  the  great 
Christian  Shylocks,  with  badges  of  their  order  upon  their  gaberdines  ? 
How  would  he  have  described  those  paper-flying  Shylocks,  without 
gaberdines,  who  hold  in  notes  the  flesh  and  blood  of  nations,  and  who 
do  not  make  paper  out  of  rags  but  rags  out  of  paper?  How  would  he 
have  portrayed  those  profligates  to  whom  God  is  a  minister  of  finance, 


APPENDIX.  IOC 

who  said,  '  Be  created,'  and  lo  !  there  was  a  world  of  paper;  Adam 
the  first  banker  ;  Paradise  a  blessed  place  of  State  papers  ;  the  fall  of 
man  the  first  fall  of  stocks  ;  the  day  of  judgment  an  ultimatum  ?  A 
Shakespeare  would  have  unveiled  the  mysterious  ways  of  these  great 
brokers  of  exchange  between  nature  and  art,  who  stake  the  gold  of 
the  one  against  the  paper  of  the  other.  What  did  that  Venetian  Shy- 
lock  do  !  He  gave  three  thousand  ducats  for  a  poor  pound  of  Christian 
flesh.  That,  at  least,  was  dearly  bought.  But  our  Shylocks  demand, 
for  one  small  eighth,  entire  Hellas." 

LUDWIG   BCERNE. 


III. — MACKLIN' s  RESTORATION  OF  SHYLOCK. 

"  Macklin,  being  freed  from  all  pecuniary  engagements  with  his 
manager,  found  himself  more  at  liberty  to  look  after  the  theatrical 
concerns  of  the  company,  which  at  this  time  Fleetwood  entirely  com- 
mitted to  his  care.  In  this  pursuit  he  did  not  neglect  his  own  reputa- 
tion. He  very  properly  considered  he  was  then  in  a  situation  which, 
by  assiduity  and  enterprise,  might  add  something  to  his  rising  fame  as 
an  actor,  which  at  no  other  time  of  his  life  before  he  had  such  an 
opportunity  of  attempting,  and  that  '  there  was  no  lucky  minute  after 
the  first  opportunity.'  He  therefore  cast  about  in  his  mind  what  new 
part  he  should  adopt,  and  to  this  purpose  carefully  looked  over  the 
stock  list,  as  well  as  several  obsolete  plays,  to  find  out  one  which  he 
thought  appropriate  to  his  own  powers  and  conception. 

"  Chance  presented  '  The  Merchant  of  Venice  '  to  his  notice,  which, 
however,  strange  now  to  conceive,  had  laid  upon  the  shelf  since  the 
year  1701,  to  make  room  for  an  alteration  from  the  same  play,  by  'Lord 
Lansdowne,  called  '  The  Jew  of  Venice,'  in  which  the  celebrated 
Dogget  performed  the  Jew  almost  in  the  style  of  broad  farce.  Macklin 
saw  this  part  with  other  eyes,  and  very  much  to  the  credit  of  his  taste 
and  understanding,  as  well  as  a  proper  estimation  of  his  own  powers, 
he  found  he  could  rebuild  a  reputation  by  reviving  the  original  of 
Shakespeare,  and  playing  the  character  of  Shylock  in  a  different  man- 
ner. The  attempt  was  arduous  and  subject  to  many  miscarriages,  and 
in  particular  to  public  prejudice  ;  but  a  consciousness  of  being  right 
will  generally  give  great  confidence.  Macklin  felt  this  consciousness, 
and  was  determined  on  the  trial. 


106  APPENDIX. 

"As  soon  as  resolved  he  communicated  his  design  to  the  manager, 
who  gave  his  consent  to  bringing  it  out  merely  as  a  revival  piece,  which 
might  bring  money  to  the  treasury.  The  play  was  therefore  announced 
to  be  in  preparation,  and  Macklin,  who  always  loved  the  character  of  a 
Theatrical  Drill  Sergeant,  now  entered  into  it  with  all  his  heart  and 
mind,  by  casting  the  parts  himself,  ordering  frequent  rehearsals,  etc., 
etc.  ;  but  when  he  came  to  affix  to  himself  the  character  of  Shylock 
and  intimated  his  design  to  play  it  seriously,  the  laugh  was  universal. 
His  best  friends  shook  their  heads  at  the  attempt,  whilst  his  rivals 
chuckled  in  secret,  and  flattered  him  with  ideas  of  success,  the  surer  to 
work  out  his  destruction. 

"  His  keen  observation  and  suspicious  temper  clearly  saw  the  train 
that  was  laying  for  him,  which  he  not  only  seemingly  overlooked,  but 
so  far  assisted  that  at  every  rehearsal,  whilst  he  enjoined  the  rest  of  the 
performers  to  do  their  best,  he  himself  played  both  under  his  voice  and 
general  powers,  carefully  reserving  his  fire  till  the  night  of  representa- 
tion. His  fellow  performers  were  by  his  conduct  completely  trapped, 
insomuch  that  many  of  them  threw  off  all  reserve,  and  publicly  said, 
'  that  this  hot-headed,  conceited  Irishman,  who  had  got  some  little 
reputation  in  a  few  parts,  had  now  availed  himself  of  the  manager's 
favor  to  bring  himself  and  the  Theatre  into  disgrace.' 

"  Fleetwood  heard  this,  and  seriously  applied  to  Macklin  to  give  up 
the  part ;  but  the  latter  was  too  conscious  of  his  own  excellence  to  lose 
such  an  opportunity.  He  frankly  told  the  manager  that  he  was  deceiv- 
ing a  set  of  men  who  envied  him,  but  that  he  would  pledge  his  life  on 
the  success  of  the  play,  and  that  in  the  end  it  would  be  highly  service- 
able to  them  both. 

"The  long-expected  night  at  last  arrived  [January  II,  1741],  and 
the  house  was  crowded  from  top  to  bottom  with  the  first  company  in 
town.  The  two  front  rows  of  the  pit,  as  usual,  were  full  of  critics,  '  Who, 
sir '  (said  the  veteran),  '  I  eyed  through  the  slit  of  the  curtain,  and  was 
glad  to  see  there,  as  I  wished  in  such  a  cause  to  be  tried  by  a  special 
jury.  When  I  made  my  appearance  in  the  green-room,  dressed  for  the 
part,  with  my  red  hat  on  my  head,  my  piqued  beard,  loose  black  gown, 
etc.,  and  with  a  confidence  which  I  never  before  assumed,  the  per- 
formers all  stared  at  one  another,  and  evidently  with  a  stare  of  dis- 
appointment. Well,  sir,  hitherto  all  was  right — till  the  last  bell  rung 
— then,  I  confess,  my  heart  began  to  beat  a  little  :  however,  I  mustered 


APPENDIX. 


107 


up  all  the  courage  I  could,  and,  recommending  my  cause  to  Providence, 
threw  myself  boldly  on  the  stage,  and  was  received  by  one  of  the 
loudest  thunders  of  applause  I  ever  before  experienced. 

"  '  The  opening  scenes  being  rather  tame  and  level,  I  could  not 
expect  much  applause  ;  but  I  found  myself  well  listened  to — I  could 
hear  distinctly  in  the  pit  the  words,  "  Very  well — very  well,  indeed. 
This  man  seems  to  know  what  he  is  about,"  etc.,  etc.  These  enco- 
miums warmed  me,  but  did  not  overset  me.  I  knew  where  I  should 
have  the  pull,  which  was  in  the  third  act,  and  reserved  myself  accord- 
ingly. At  this  period  I  threw  out  all  my  fire,  and  as  the  contrasted 
passions  of  joy  for  the  merchant's  losses  and  grief  for  the  elopement  of 
Jessica  open  a  fine  field  for  an  actor's  powers,  I  had  the  good  fortune  to 
please  beyond  my  warmest  expectations.  The  whole  house  was  in  an 
uproar  of  applause,  and  I  was  obliged  to  pause  between  the  speeches 
to  give  it  vent,  so  as  to  be  heard.  When  I  went  behind  the  scenes 
after  this  act,  the  Manager  met  me  and  complimented  me  very  highly 
on  my  performance,  and  significantly  added  :  ' '  Macklin,  you  was  right 
at  last."  My  brethren  in  the  green-room  joined  in  his  eulogium,  but 
with  different  views.  He  was  thinking  of  the  increase  of  his  treasury, 
they  only  for  saving  appearances,  wishing  at  the  same  time  that  I  had 
broken  my  neck  in  the  attempt.  The  trial  scene  wound  up  the  fulness 
of  my  reputation  ;  here  I  was  well  listened  to,  and  here  I  made  such  a 
silent  yet  forcible  impression  on  my  audience  that  I  retired  from  this 
great  attempt  most  perfectly  satisfied. 

"  'On  my  return  to  the  green-room,  after  the  play  was  over,  it  was 
crowded  with  nobility  and  critics,  who  all  complimented  me  in  the 
warmest  and  unbounded  manner,  and  the  situation  I  felt  myself  in,  I 
must  confess,  was  one  of  the  most  flattering  and  intoxicating  of  my 
whole  life.  No  money — no  title  could  purchase  what  I  felt.  And  let 
no  man  tell  me  after  this  what  fame  will  not  inspire  a  man  to  do,  and 
how  far  the  attainment  of  it  will  not  remunerate  his  greatest  labors. 
By  G — d,  sir,  although  I  was  not  worth  fifty  pounds  in  the  world  at 
that  time,  yet,  let  me  tell  you,  I  was  Charles  the  Great  for  that  night.' 

"A  few  days  afterwards  Macklin  received  an  invitation  from  Lord 
Bolingbroke  to  dine  with  him  at  Battersea.  He  attended  the  rendez- 
vous, and  there  found  Pope  and  a  select  party,  who  complimented  him 
very  highly  on  the  part  of  Shylock,  and  questioned  him  about  many 
little  particulars  relative  to  his  getting  up  the  play,  etc.  Pope  particu- 


I08  APPENDIX. 

larly  asked  him  why  he  wore  a  red  hat,  and  he  answered,  because  he 
had  read  that  Jews  in  Italy,  particularly  in  Venice,  wore  hats  of  that 
color.  'And  pray,  Mr.  Macklin,'  said  Pope,  'do  players  in  general 
take  such  pains?'  '  I  do  not  know,  sir,  that  they  do ;  but  as  I  had 
staked  my  reputation  on  the  character,  I  was  determined  to  spare  no 
trouble  in  getting  at  the  best  information.  Pope  nodded,  and  said,  '  It 
was  very  laudable.' 

"  Macklin  took  this  play  for  his  benefit  on  the  nineteenth  night,  and 
had  an  overflowing  audience.  Several  noblemen  of  the  first  distinction 
took  what  is  commonly  called  gold  tickets,  and  Lord  Bolingbroke  made 
him  a  present  of  twenty  guineas. 

"  The  play  had  a  successful  run  through  the  whole  of  the  season, 
and  for  many  seasons  afterwards  ;  it  established  his  reputation  as  an 
actor,  and  not  a  little  added  to  his  discernment  as  a  critic,  in  reviving 
a  piece  which,  perhaps,  except  for  his  research,  might  have  been  lost 

to  the  stage  forever." 

COOKE'S  LIFE  OF  MACKLIN. 


IV. — COSTUME  FOR  "THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE." 

The  dresses  suitable  to  be  worn  in  representing  "  The  Merchant  of 
Venice"  are  Venetian,  of  the  time  of  Shakespeare.  The  garments 
of  the  Duke  of  Venice,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  according  to  Caesar 
Vecellio,  were  usually  composed  of  cloth  of  silver,  cloth  of  gold,  and 
crimson  velvet.  The  cap,  robe,  and  mantle  were  of  the  same  color. 
On  days  sacred  to  the  Holy  Virgin  the  Duke  appeared  in  white.  "  He 
hath  his  head  covered  with  a  thin  coif,"  says  an  old  writer,  "and  on 
his  forehead  he  wears  a  crimson  kind  of  mitre,  with  a  gold  border,  and 
behind  it  turns  up  in  form  of  a  horn  ;  on  his  shoulders  he  carries 
ermine  skins,  to  the  middle  ;  on  his  feet  he  wears  embroidered  san- 
dals, tied  with  gold  buttons,  and  about  his  middle  a  most  rich  belt, 
embroidered  with  costly  jewels."  Vecellio  says  that  the  Duke  wore, 
not  sandals,  but  slippers.  The  three  chiefs  of  the  Council  of  Ten 
wore  red  gowns,  with  long  sleeves,  either  of  cloth,  camlet,  or  damask, 
according  to  the  weather,  with  a  flap  of  the  same  color  over  their  left 
shoulders  ;  also  red  stockings  and  slippers.  The  rest  of  the  Ten  wore 
black  camlet  gowns  with  long  sleeves.  The  young  nobles  in  general 
wore  gowns  of  black  cloth  faced  with  black  taffeta.  Little  black  caps 


APPENDIX.  109 

of  felt  were  worn,  without  brims.  The  doublet — cut  to  fit  closely  to 
the  body — was  made  of  rich  black  taffeta  or  satin,  and  trimmed  with 
costly  lace.  The  Knights  of  St.  Mark  wore  red  apparel  under  their 
black  gowns.  "Young  lovers,"  says  Vecellio,  "wear  generally  a 
doublet  and  breeches  of  satin,  tabby,  or  other  silk,  cut  or  slashed,  in 
the  form  of  crosses  or  stars,  through  which  slashes  is  seen  the  lining, 
of  colored  taffeta  ;  gold  buttons,  a  lace  ruff,  a  bonnet  of  rich  velvet  or 
silk,  with  an  ornamental  band,  a  silk  cloak,  and  silk  stockings,  Span- 
ish morocco  shoes,  a  flower  in  one  hand  and  their  gloves  and  handker- 
chief in  the  other."  This  habit  was  commonly  worn  by  young 
noblemen  previous  to  the  time — in  their  eighteenth  or  twentieth  year 
— when  they  put  on  the  gown  with  sleeves,  called  "acomito."  In 
the  costume  of  the  ladies  of  Venice  a  distinguishing  peculiarity  was 
the  veil,  which  was  worn  very  long.  Wives  and  widows  wore  black 
veils,  and  this  custom  was  imitated  by  courtesans.  Wives,  however, 
also  wore  white  veils  edged  with  lace.  Maids  wore  thin  silk  veils, 
either  white  or  yellowish.  The  veils  of  the  Jewish  women  were 
yellow,  but  in  other  respects  their  costume  was  not  exceptional.  All 
Italian  women  in  this  period  wore  train  dresses,  of  satin,  silk,  or 
other  material,  with  high,  pointed  corsage,  ruff,  long  puffed  sleeves, 
and  embroidered  stomacher.  The  dress  of  a  doctor  of  laws  consisted 
of  an  upper  robe  of  black  damask  cloth,  velvet,  or  silk,  an  under  robe 
of  black  silk,  with  a  silk  sash,  the  ends  of  the  sash  hanging  down  to 
the  middle  of  the  leg,  stockings  of  black  cloth  or  velvet,  and  a  cap 
of  velvet  or  silk.  The  Jews,  according  to  Vecellio,  wore  dresses 
identical  with  those  of  the  Venetians,  but  were  distinguished  by  the 
yellow  bonnet  or  cap — the  badge  of  suffrance — which  they  were  by 
law  enjoined  to  carry  as  a  mark  of  their  disgraced  condition.  It  is 
not  known  that  the  "Jewish  gaberdine"  differed  from  the  Venetian 
gown.  Strict  accuracy  in  dressing  this  play — as  in  some  other  pieces 
— might  lead  to  comical  results.  A  tasteful  allowance  in  these  matters 
is  not  only  allowable  but  necessary. 

WILLIAM  WINTER. 


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